


The Strange War of Lieutenant Kijé

by Eisenschrott



Series: The Saucy Executor [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 76,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a post-Hoth one-night stand, General Veers and Admiral Piett struggle to learn the fine art of semi-clandestine affairs while junior officers scheme for promotion, Rebels are pursued, bounty hunters stink up the command bridge, Vader is a useful reminder that screw-ups aren't an option, and an officer of the propaganda corps tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You heard that sort of set phrase tossed ‘round the military everywhere.

_The higher the rank, the nastier the headache._

Like many other such pieces of wisdom, it was already old when Veers had been a cadet. Old as war itself, passed on through the species, the worlds and the millennia. First spoken by a general probably, centuries before space warfare was even a thing. Or by a general’s sassy ADC. Who knew.

He’d been dismissive of it once, but it was just because, back then, he was at the bottom of the military food chain. The general of today, downing a cup of extra-strong caf on his way to his office, was sure the pulsing, thrashing, humming pain that attempted to split his skull open from within could be a damn good fit for a Grand Moff. Aspirin had been of little use, since the very bugger responsible for the headache had robbed most of his pills. Once the first swathe of work for the day was done, he was going straight to the medbay and getting a pint of whatever meds they could hand over…

He shouldn’t have thought of pints, of all things. He felt bubbles in his stomach and a nauseating sour-sweet taste in his throat, that brushing his teeth twice had not helped much.

The corridor was empty, but he put a hand over his mouth to stanch the belch anyway. A few paces from his office door, he noticed the figure standing in the doorframe, Press Corps logo on the sleeve. And she noticed him.

She snapped on attention, a datapad under her arm. “Good day, General, sir. I was just coming—”

“ _You_ are just _going_ , Lieutenant.” He was thirty centimetres taller than her, almost twice as broad-shouldered, higher than her up the hierarchy, and his quota of kills outnumbered hers uncountable to zero. It was natural she worked her jaw and blinked in unease.

“I requested formal permission for a minute of your time yesterday, sir,” Lieutenant Kijé said. “You’ll remember my request received a regular authorisation.” She showed him the datapad. On the screen there was a form with the word _approved_ stamped across in green. She made a sheepish face and lowered her voice. “The Ministry of Information has been comming me the whole night over this interview, sir. I realise how nagging I am, but I have superiors, too. It will be only a minute, sir, I’m going to time it. I beg of you.”

It was a kick to the bollocks of military professionalism that a junior officer should have superiors at the Ministry of Information, let alone they tell her to beg a general for an interview. Veers rolled his eyes. “For stars’ sake, this is the third most awkward thing that’s happened today.”

Kijé tilted her head. By some miracle of make-up, she had a face that looked pretty every angle the ship’s cold lights hit it. “I wouldn’t want to imagine the first two, sir.”

Images of the soiled mess that once was his bed and of a starchy admiral slapping him on the arse flashed before Veers’ eyes. He grit his teeth, and had to remind himself it wasn’t like Miss Propaganda here could see them too. “One minute,” he growled, “then get out of my sight fast.”

“Yes sir.” Kijé stepped away from the door and followed him inside the office. With the corner of his eye, Veers watched her tap on the datapad, pull a holorecorder out of her trousers’ pocket and plug it into the datapad.

Veers sat behind his desk, Kijé waited by the chair in front of it until he’d ordered her to take the seat, then she put down the datapad and the recorder on the desk. She cleared her throat, gave him a bashful look, and pressed a green button on the recorder, which came to life with a whirr.

So did Kijé. In place of the mechanical noise, a silvery, cheerful voice that was so different from the lieutenant’s usual quiet droning it felt disembodied. “I am here with General Maximillian Veers, commander of the armoured division that stormed the Rebel base. Sir, what are your final thoughts on this outstanding success?”

He stiffened on the chair. Final thoughts. “Several brave men and women have spilled their blood to defend the Empire,” on a gods-forsaken ice cube of a planet, their corpses destined to keep wampas well-fed throughout the week, “but I am confident the Rebel terrorists took as much as ten times the death toll.” The figure probably was accurate if you took in those who travelled on the transports gunned down by the Star Destroyers. Veers hoped it was. Hoped he was downplaying it.

“So, could you confidently say we are getting nearer to the return of peace and safety in the galaxy?”

He held back a smile. Got to wonder if she wrote these lines out and rehearsed them. “Yes, we are. It’s what makes every sacrifice worth the effort, for the greater good of the galaxy.” He’d heard that bit at his son’s graduation ceremony on Prefsbelt, during the sector Moff’s speech. By uttering it, he found himself believing in it even more.

“Thank you, General. From me and from the whole of the Empire.” Kijé pressed the record button again. The whirr ceased.

“A minute has already passed?”

Her eyes lit up. “Could you spare another five, sir?”

“Get lost. I have to work.”

“Yes sir.” Kijé collected her kit, saluted, and nipped out of the room.

Veers was alone with the headache again. He rubbed his drumming temples; his forehead was hot, but he’d worked—and fought—through much worse fevers, if it even was one. He checked the mini-refrigerator under the desk. First thing he found upon opening it was a can of beer. The headache pounded stronger. He pulled out the bottle of water next to the beer.

 _I stick to clean living_ , he recalled himself saying, before the first round of Sarlacc Spit. Or was it the second? He felt very tempted to smash the bottle over his own head, but it would have made the headache worse. He uncorked the bottle with forefinger and thumb of his left hand, with the right switched on the computer console, and the urge to smash the bottle returned as he went through the unread messages in his inbox and the agenda of the day. Not necessarily smash it onto his ailing skull, not his own—he rather had a certain someone in mind, who was guilty of this all…

But a red-flagged message caught his eye, the sender abbreviated simply as _DV_. Veers’ anger faded to a colder, number mood. That shrimp of a navy toff must be as badly hungover as him, and in such a state, this very moment, he was dealing with the big man in black himself.

Veers took a chilly sip. It reminded him of the wind on Hoth blowing snow to his face. The first report of the day popped up open on the screen.


	2. Chapter 2

Lieutenant Annice Kijé kept mum all the way back to her work station, several minutes of standing seat on the turbolift away from the general’s office. The storm brew and roiled inside her tight-shut mouth. At last, when the door had slid closed behind her, she yelled, “Sodding douchebag!” But her voice was weird, she hadn’t spoken anything so loudly in a while, and she pressed a hand over her lips.

Sixtee scuffed towards her in a creaking and squeaking of joints that reminded her the protocol droid was overdue for an oil bath. Two weeks overdue. “Welcome back, ma’am.” And she better have his vocoder cleaned up, too. Sixtee had been programmed with a rather low baritone voice, but he was starting to sound like Lord Vader.

“Sup, shiny.” She marched past Sixtee to the main computer terminal, and shoved a lump of cables and clothes off the chair. “Please tell me you’re done editing yesterday’s footage.” She flopped to sit and, under the desk, kicked the core power unit on. Five viewscreens and two holoprojectors lit up in a buzz. Kijé stared into the retinal scanner until the positive beep.

“ _Good day, Lieutenant Kijé!_ ”, Bethan, the computer’s AI, greeted her in her feminine chipper voice.

“I am, ma’am,” said Sixtee.

“Hurrah.” She connected the recorder to the computer and started downloading.

“You have also received ten more messages from Minister Hax’s office since you left to meet General Veers.” _Creeak_ , the droid leaned over. “You met him, didn’t you?”

“The very douchebag I was complaining about.”

“ _Download complete_ ”, piped up Bethan. “ _Do you want me to open this file?_ ”

“You betcha. Play it on Screen Two.”

A flash of static crossed the viewscreen, which then split in two frames, one showing the general, the other Kijé. “Thank the stars my make-up wasn’t running,” she muttered, watching her recorded self’s pathetic attempt at sounding professional. Her voice was even more nasal and stupid on the audio track, the cheerfulness as unnatural and syrupy as an Outer Rim landspeeder salesman’s. She cringed and hid her face when she heard herself thank the general. Sweet stars, if he’d punched her she wouldn’t have blamed him.

“Ma’am, are you feeling unwell?” asked Sixtee.

Well, the Ministry folks were going to have her neck anyway. She could do without the punching, yeah. Pretty sure the general knew every Teräs Käsi move like some holoflick action hero…

Kijé frowned at the freeze frame of the record’s end. “What’s that?”

“ _Do you want me to run a search for glitches?_ ”, asked the computer.

“Nah, wasn’t talking to you, Bethan.” Kijé planted her elbows on the console and zoomed in on the thing the general had placed in front of himself on the desk. A plastifoam throwaway cup, large size, bearing the serial number of a vending machine on the senior officers’ personal quarters. The label was in binary. “Hey, Sixtee, come over and read what’s written here.”

The noise of the droid’s joints behind her made her grit her teeth.

“ _Extra strong double dark double sugar_ , ma’am. I believe it is—”

“Priceless.” Kijé hovered the scissor-cursor on the record string, trimmed off a few milliseconds of unnecessary pause in the general’s lines, and ordered the computer to paste the edited record onto the final communiqué. A grin had bloomed across her face, and when she had the computer play the whole report, she broke into a snorting laughter the instant the general appeared on screen, serious as a stone, with the cup of caf in plain view. Wiping tears off her eyes, Kijé said, “Okay, I’m fine—okay, back to business. Yep. Right. Send this to Chief Kastle at the Ministry of Information, flagged as urgent.”

 _“Message sent!”_ , chimed Bethan.

“That does it for the Coruscant HoloNews.” She checked the time and bit her cheek; not likely they could squeeze the communiqué into the schedule unless they aired a special edition. Kastle was going to tear her the first new arsehole of the day, just as predicted. “Army Channel’s the next. Snowtroopers party footage, please?”

On the main viewscreen appeared a dozen freeze-frame icons, and Kijé knew there were thrice as many just a swipe away. Most of the frames showed blurry white helmets that appeared to be running straight towards the camera; in a third of the videos, they had done just that.

Kijé swiped back and forth through the tabs. “I think it was… Here!” She tapped on an icon and the video started playing; shrill laughter and the sound of a synth-harmonica filled the room. Kijé slightly backed off on the chair. _Okay, unsuitable for the Army Channel_. “Bethan, fast-forward to minute fifteen-thirty.”

The record now showed a female trooper, clad in full armour save for the helmet, sitting at the end of a mess hall table, turning and turning the spoon in her dish of soup without eating. Bethan’s facial recognition software opened a pop-up window at the bottom corner of the screen, identifying the soldier as one TK-838, Trooper First Class Chenda Soult.

The soldier frowned and looked into the camera. “Sorry?”

Kijé’s silly voice repeated the question, “You were part of the first wave—in the ground attack today—weren’t you? Could you tell us a bit?”

“Us? It’s just you and the camera, sir.” A flicker in her dark brown eyes. “Ma’am. Lieutenant.”

Kijé rolled her eyes. You’d think they taught bucketheads how to properly address superiors.

“This is going to the Holonet though. Tell us, as in, tell me and the citizens of the Empire.”

Soult glared at an off-screen point to her right from where came a noise of dropped trays, and turned the spoon faster. “First wave, yes ma’am. Jumped off Colonel Covell’s walker myself. ‘fraid the real meaty stuff’s classified, but mark my words, it _was_ meaty.”

Kijé mumbled, “Sister, save that line for a career in butcher’s shop commercials,” whereas in the record she went on in her pathetic-jovial interview mode, “How would you describe your squad’s behaviour during the battle?”

The trooper cracked a smile and shook her head. “You see ‘em now partying like momongs on spice, ma’am. Wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” Her gaze trailed off-screen again; the synth-harmonica had resumed and an off-key female voice was mangling _Sink the Malevolence_. Kijé paused the record, told Bethan to make an audio scan to check whether the lyrics were the forbidden Jedi-praising ones from the Clone Wars, and pressed _play_ again. Soult resurrected from the freeze-frame, still looking away from the camera, “Big damned heroes, anyway. Left a carpet of dead Rebs in their wake. A carpet, ma’am.”

Silence fell—or, as much silence as you can get with a squad of troopers joining the solo singer for the chorus while bashing their glasses on the table.

Yes, that had been a scary moment. Had they been alone, Kijé would have easily bid her time and tiptoed through the silence, one amiable little question at a time. But there were too many people around, too many causes of distraction and potential walk-ins. She heard her own recorded voice crack at the next question, the instant Soult put the spoon down, drank from her glass, and pushed her tray on the table towards her. “You can finish it, ma’am. I bet you need it more than me.”

A rush of blood got to Kijé’s cheeks, now like then. Stars, she heard herself stutter thanks. _Stutter_. She slapped her forehead. “Stupid girl, stupid girl, stupid girl.” In the video, Soult flipped a saluting hand, stood up, and strode off-screen. Tongue-tied, Kijé had watched her reach an officer waiting by a door at the far end of the mess hall, and leave with him.

“ _Audio scan complete_ ”, said Bethan. “ _The song text does not match any content deemed illegal by the Ministry of Information. Do you want me to run another scan?_ ”

“No, no need for that.” She felt bad over the first scan. They were heroes, boisterous douchebags as they were, and had a right to unwind. “Sixtee, be a chum and compose a message for the Army Channel, tell them I’ll send the—Sixtee?”

She turned. The droid stood motionless behind her, photoreceptors off.

“Dammit.” She felt for the on-off button on Sixtee’s neck, and the pressure was enough to push the droid backwards. Kijé recoiled, covered her ears and shut her eyes just in time before the horrifying noise of metal crashing and clattering hit her.

Slowly, shaking, a couple deep breaths and a round of counting from one to ten later, she got herself to look.

The right arm had fallen off the elbow joints. Shards of metal and rust—was it rust?—littered the floor.

“Dammit.”

“ _J-6TO was nineteen standard days overdue for an oil bath and a general check-up_ ”, said Bethan, her calm machine demeanour suddenly ramming cold pointy steel inside Kijé’s back. “ _I calculate there is a 96.7% probability this was the cause of the malfunction._ ”

“Double dammit!” Kijé looked frantically up and down the room, as if there were any fix at the ready on her neatly done bed—neatly done because it was Sixtee who tidied it up—and the few holoposters that decorated the grey durasteel walls. _Okay, Annice, okay. That was a cock-up. Okay. We can work this out_. There was a procedure in these cases. _Gotta follow it. It will be fine_. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. One. Two. Three... all the way up to ten. “Bethan, comm the deck officer.”


	3. Chapter 3

“About damn time,” Admiral Piett overheard one of the helmsmen say, after he had repeated to the crew Lord Vader’s order to manoeuvre the _Executor_ out of the asteroid field. And, to be sure, after Vader himself had stridden off the command bridge.

“About _when it’s time_ , Petty Officer Tosi,” said Piett, standing on the walkway above the helmsmen’s pit.

Tosi glanced up with a fearful face, muttered a _yessir_ and looked back down, a little more hunched up in her seat than before.

A tiny part of Piett’s mind wondered if her fright was directed at him, or at Lord Vader by proxy. A question not even worth posing. He turned to one of the deck officers, busy tapping on a datapad. “Lieutenant Ardan, a word.”

Ardan looked up, his lean face a perfect example of the expressionlessness required to military personnel. _Look at him and learn, Petty Officer Tosi. Look at him and learn, Firmus_. “Yes, sir.” In two strides he caught up with the admiral.

Piett started down the walkway, with Ardan at his side. “What is the state of the heavy infantry repairs?” he asked to make it seem like normal work talk, as long as they were within earshot of the bridge crew.

Arden studied the datapad. “Latest updates say seventy-seven percent complete. The request forms to Supply and Logistics for replacement AT-ATs are awaiting General Veers’ signature to be sent in, sir.”

All of a sudden, the surroundings transmogrified into the cockpit of a walker, cramped and reeking of fuel; no back seats, just the Holo-transceiver and targeting console, a hard and bumpy place to be shoved against and held down over, by a strong hand clutching his hair—

A soft thump and a pain in his left foot hauled him back to the bridge, the junior officer at his side, and the mouse droid bleeping the binary equivalent of _hey, watch your step_. Damn good for him he was used to seal expletives behind gritted teeth. He kept Ardan—and the crew—unsuspecting by some other trivial question, all the while leading him along the viewport platform. It was reassuring there would soon be again free, black space beyond it, instead of the asteroids and the flash of turbolasers pulverising the smaller of them out of the Star Destroyers’ way. Ardan answered without any apparent effort, precise and blank and spying the datapad so often Piett was sure he had a podracing scores feed open, amidst the data flow.

Piett stepped into a console niche at the far corner of the viewport. “That stormtrooper you were sleeping with last night, Lieutenant,” he quietly cut Ardan mid-sentence. “I don’t care if it was you or she who made the first move. You shouldn’t have.”

Ardan remained blank-faced, and very still. “Pardon me, sir?”

“For your sake, I hope it was just a one-night stand.”

“Admiral, I truly don’t—”

“Wasn’t it?”

Ardan wet his lips.

“Lieutenant, I don’t have time for lies and excuses. Neither have you.”

“…What did Chenda tell you?” Ardan’s voice was as small and subdued as his face stayed impassive, although paler.

“Enough.” _Chenda_. No very common name. A bit of cross-checking in the stormtroopers’ duty rosters, with any luck, would suffice. He felt glad Ardan had made his own assumption and not asked _how_ the fling had come to his notice. One less lie the admiral had to be responsible of.

In his mind, Ardan must be hurling at her the most vicious insults a man can use to a woman. There was a dangerous light in his narrowed eyes, too. Piett had seen it before, had seen what it made men do near combat zones, and he found himself clenching his fists. “It is yourself you ought to blame. You weren’t made a lieutenant commander so that you could abuse your authority with your own troops. Understood?” He bent a little to the side and locked gazes with Ardan again. “ _Understood?_ ”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Consider this your first and last warning.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Also, if you even think of harming her, in any sense of the word, I will come to know. And I will have proof to show either a court-martial or Lord Vader, or both.”

Ardan’s lips quivered. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

Piett nodded slowly, without breaking eye contact. Ardan’s shoulders now sagged and rose at every breath he took, and a trickle of sweat ran down his left cheek from under his cap. There was a kick to instilling such fear in another being, Piett had to admit it. That same fear he was acquainted with, and masked just as well as Ardan was doing. “You may return to your duties.” He almost meant the officerly politeness.

“Very well, sir.” Ardan saluted smartly and trotted to the far end of the bridge, where he shoved the datapad in the hands of a warrant officer. His steps were so brisk on the walkway a mumble of _blast your nerf feet_ arose from some crewmember. Piett saw him yank his comlink off his belt, and disappear into the corridor as he spoke.

_What are you, five years old?_ Worse, Piett recalled: a stock market tycoon’s son from the Core Worlds. Not the ilk he would like to pass the Lady Ex’s captaincy onto. _Go inherit your folks’ fortune, lad, not my station_. Now, if wishes were hyperdrive engines, and he could tell that upfront to half the junior officers seething to step in for that promotion…

Still, another potential problem solved without fuss. And the ship was getting out of the asteroid field, even though Vader could have the Lady Ex fly back there any moment, after his top-level-secrecy conference with the Emperor was finished. The rest of the fleet, much smaller and frailer ships, was stuck scanning rock after rock, losing men, material, and time. To suppress a mounting shiver, Piett marched into the crew starboard pit, to the group of warrant officers who monitored the deflector shields array.

“She took some battering overnight but she’ll hold fast, sir,” was their chief’s verdict.

_Same here, Lady. Same here._


	4. Chapter 4

Lieutenant Commander Ardan shut off his comlink. He couldn’t remember a word he had just spoken, nor what the propaganda officer had been prattling about—a malfunctioning droid or something? He broke into a run to get to the turbolift, pushed aside a petty officer in his way, and keyed in the code for the deck he had his personal quarters in.

Once the door had slid safely shut and the lift departed, Ardan slammed his fist on the wall, then kicked at it a couple times.

The comlink was still in his hand. He tuned it to another frequency. Chenda answered at the first beep, “Here TK-838.”

“I request assistance at the officers’ quarters deck, section Besh, lift number three.”

“Coming up, sir.” _Click_ , comm closed. That was all. Not a hint of concern in her voice, modulated through the helmet, cold, business-like. _Insensitive bitch_. A second later, it dawned on Ardan she might be around other troopers, or non-coms or officers, and it was bad enough the admiral alone knew.

Ardan tugged at the collar of his tunic. Damn, it was like Lord Vader left a trail of nuclear radiation wherever he went, and it stuck. Maybe that was how he did that throttling trick, a neurotoxin or nanomachines flying around the ventilation system, activated with a remote control in his helmet or...

He shook his head. The nine hells knew. And he was letting an Outer Rim upstart, drunk on the power and rank that had landed onto his lap by sheer chance, get the better of him. Indeed, Piett had his merits and a modicum of competence; he had been an alright captain—but that was the point, people like him should _remain_ captains. Stay in the place where they were most useful. Higher than that, they became liabilities. They created unnecessary, unhealthy competition in the fleet, by clawing at the rightful places of officers born and bred to fill in those ranks. _Admiral Ardan_ had a nice ring to it, which sounded even better in Chenda’s Corellian accent.

At the end of the lift ride, Ardan rushed to his cabin and kneeled to inspect the lock. There was no visible sign of a break-in, and the keypad’s parameters were set as he’d always left them.

Footfalls behind him made him look over his shoulder, to face a stormtrooper.

“What happened, sir?” asked Chenda, still playing soldier. Or maybe not playing at all.

“I suspect someone broke into my room last night, while I slept.”

She lowered her head. “Did you hear anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Are you sure it was a break-in?”

“I’m sure someone saw me.” _And by ‘me’, I mean ‘us’_.

“You might check the lock’s log, sir. If they used a stolen code cylinder for discretion, we could have a lead.”

Ardan glared at the lock and keypad. “If I were in a burglar’s place, I’d clear the logs or tweak the cylinder to incognito mode. One would have to be a special brand of stupid not to consider that risk.” He shrugged. “But we can hope so.”

“Glad to help, sir.”

“Sarcasm does not help.” Ardan returned his attention to the keypad. A few minutes of tinkering later, an ID code and a timestamp flashed on the small keypad screen, and Ardan’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Chenda’s hand weighed on his shoulder. “What the hell?” she said quietly, but the helmet microphone amplified and harshened the words. “General Veers? At two-twenty in the morning?”

“This must be a forgery. It cannot be anything else.” Stars, the sole idea of Piett sending the general to spy on junior officers’ sleep habits made his lips twitch in dumbfounded mirth.

“Actually…” Chenda lifted her helmet and scratched her chin. A red hickey marred her skin, and Ardan felt hot in his cheeks, not sure if out of pride or shame. “The rumour mill got something on that today,” Chenda went on. “Some trooper in Neebray Company was saying he ran into the general and the admiral, sometime last night. Sloshed and limping their way towards seniors’ lodgings.”

“Sloshed?”

No one was within earshot in the corridor; however, Chenda kept her voice low, “The guy’s got a theory that they were shagging in the lift. But you know how things are on long tours of duty.” She made a vague waving gesture with her blaster. “Folks grow frustrated, and they start seeing bang-her-in-the-hangar everywhere.”

If there was an odd look at him behind that helmet, he couldn’t see it and did not want to.

“Isn’t the general’s cabin, like, right over there?”

“Do you think it was all by mistake?”

Her turn to shrug. “Sloshed. So, I take it the admiral chewed you out?”

Ardan stood up with a grunt. “That son of a Hutt, you wouldn’t believe it. Treated me like—like I was a rapist or something.”

“No shit.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Of course, the only condition at which he let me go without demoting me or locking me up in the brig is, we must end our relationship.”

“You don’t have the face of one who’s going to end a relationship.”

“Unless that ends my _career_.”

Chenda paused, dark helmet lens boring into his eyes. “Point taken.” This time, the upset note outweighed the matter-of-factly.

“Don’t think I’m not sorry—it’s just… That bastard, I fucking swear—he said he had proof to show, if…” _Proof. Show. Wait a moment_. Ardan gazed at the barely visible lump on the ceiling where one of the security cameras lay watching.

Chenda followed his eyes, and in what no doubt must be an entirely unconscious reaction, she brought her blaster to port. “You told me you knew the way through the blind spots.”

“I do, and they did not film us, all right? But, listen, according to bridge crew scuttlebutt, there’s a secret secondary CCTV, that the high-ups use to spy on each other. Or that the Emperor uses to spy on them, depends on who you ask.”

“Who mans it?”

“Well, if I were to take Ensign Gherant’s word… Hold on, I told you it’s just a rumour—”

“Worth a try, sir.”

Ardan’s comlink beeped. “Shit, on the bridge they must be wondering where I’ve been.” He switched it on. “Lieutenant Commander Ardan.”

Whoever rang him made a short-of-breath noise, halfway between snivelling and coughing. The quick end of the new admiral, thought Ardan while his heartrate tripled—

“You are the deck officer I commed earlier, aren’t you?”, said a whining girly voice. “It’s been several minutes and no one came for my droid, haha… Look, if I have made some mistake in the procedure I—damn, not now,” an incoming message alert began tooting, “uhm, sorry, I must take that call—Bethan, pass that on the main holo—”

The comm went off with a click.

“Blasted COMPNOR bitch. Go and see what she wants.” Ardan felt a hard stare on him, and added, “Well, so what? That’s an order. Officer to trooper.”

She gave a curt nod. “Yessir.”


	5. Chapter 5

After the first three hours of non-stop paperwork, Veers decided the beer can in the refrigerator was, after all, a godsend. Not for drinking, but rather to apply something cold to his forehead every once in a while.

Eventually, the can grew warm. Veers’ eyes burned if he so much as read one line on the computer screen built into his desk. An aide came in to deliver yet another datapad full of yet more reports; she cast a glance upon the can, next to the empty caf cup he’d kept forgetting to throw away. Having been a junior officer himself, Veers could well imagine what she was thinking.

You know a day’s shaping up to be piss-poor when the best part of it, the honest best part, is the propaganda officer asking silly questions. At least she’d been polite and, most importantly, he wasn’t going to see her again today.

He squinted at the backlit datapad display. The letters were trembling blurs, the vice around his skull had tightened to such a point he daydreamt of a sniper rifle blasting it off along with his whole head, and enough was enough. He felt around for the comm button to call his officer of the day. “Captain, I’ll be off to the medbay for a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If anything urgent comes up, comm me.”

“Yes, sir.”

His sense of time had lived better days, but it did take more than _a few minutes_ to wait up for a lift, plus the ride, and to reach the nearest medbay. There were couches in the reception area, with plenty of free sitting room, but he went straight to the receptionist’s counter. A female medic manned the position and a male navy trooper stood propped up with both elbows on the counter, smiling too broadly for someone reporting sick. As soon as they spotted him, both took half a step backwards.

Veers planted a hand on the counter to keep himself from collapsing, and fixed his eyes on the receptionist. “Doctor, I know you’re quite busy,” with actual wounded from the battlefield in intensive care, unlike the idling trooper here, “so I’ll be brief: I have a headache the size of a supernova and need a pack of aspirins. Anything you can spare?”

“I am very sorry, General.” More frightened than sorry. “We ran out of anti-migraine medications.”

He said nothing. Just stared at the receptionist. His head felt light, now that nothing but pain filled it.

The receptionist swallowed, shot a look at the navy trooper who had slinked to the exit, and cleared her throat. “Maybe we can scrape up something.” She started towards the ward door. “Please have a seat and—”

“I’m coming.” Like hell he was going to be seen passed out on a waiting room couch. _The infantry doesn’t do couches, Admiral_.

No, he ordered himself. _Don’t think about it. Not now_. He focused on the sliding door, the medic in her white coat, the smell of disinfectant that filled the air once they crossed the threshold. The receptionist spoke a few words, that Veers missed, to an even more spineless-looking orderly, who led the way up the ward. The other orderlies, and even the 2-1Bs, made way as soon as they noticed the senior officer’s presence. The patients who could stand went as far as saluting. Not many.

“Hey, stupid clanker, help me up, General’s doing an inspection!” drawled a man who lay on one of the cots that lined the aisle on both sides, separated from one another by folding screens. He nudged a medical droid fiddling with the IV bags on the pole at the side of the cot. The 2-1B ignored him.

Veers opened his mouth to ask the medic how many had died of their wounds overnight, but clammed up and just did his best not to appear like the hungover shit he was feeling. He owed them that much. Hands behind straight back, eyes to the front, regular steps. The aisle contracted and expanded, the light turned white-hot and the shadows high-contrast black. Good thing he had cut breakfast to the bare essential of caffeine, with no solid food. And at least the ship wasn’t doing barrel rolls and he didn’t have to carry anyone in his arms.

“Uh, General?” The medic, a sheepish gaze on his face, stood at the side of a cot Veers had just walked a couple metres past. Sat up on the bed, there was Lieutenant Kijé, holorecorder up and pointed on him. Veers made a long, low hissing sound through his nose.

Kijé flinched, and dropped the recorder onto her lap.

“Turn that thing off, Lieutenant,” said Veers in a flat voice. “This area is off-limits to cameras.”

She grabbed the medic’s arm. “Is it a new directive? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The medic stared at her dainty pale hand as if it were the tentacle of a dianoga. “It’s… no directive, ma’am.” He shook his arm free and went to hand a half-empty pack of tablets to Veers. “I apologise for the delay, sir. We weren’t expecting so many alcohol poisoning cases in one night. Major Sauris will make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Even though the ceiling lights were hacking and slicing at his eyes, and a pounding noise filled his ears, Veers didn’t take the offered pack. “Why did you let _her_ in?”

The medic started stammering a reply, but he cut him off, “Letting that press corps anooba film your patients—didn’t they teach you a bit of basic respect in medical school?”

“General, permission to know what’s going on,” a stern female voice rang out behind him. He turned, the ship spun on her axis, and he careened backwards.

“Oh, crap!” That was the younger medic, suddenly far off.

A strong grip took hold of Veers’ right arm and another of his left hip. “A little help here, Lund, he’s a heavy load,” said Major Sauris. “No offence meant, General.”

Veers was past caring about being offended. Couldn’t see a damn thing anymore. His eyes must be watering, he felt the tears trail down his cheeks.

“Lieutenant, I have to ask you to get up.”

They laid him down on his back. He wiped his face on his sleeve and left his forearm dangle there over his eyes. He must be a ridiculous spectacle. Hang ridiculous. At least the lights were dampened.

Sauris laughed. “I hope you’re not about to faint as well, Lieutenant.”

Cursing the press corps anooba through his teeth, Veers tried to pull himself into a more dignified position. If there is such a thing as a dignified position on a medbay bed. He retreated his arm and sat up; where his brains were supposed to be, a sphere of durasteel rolled down and weighed his head forward down.

What was worse, something was stirring and burning in his stomach.

“Open your mouth, General, and breathe normally.”

He forced himself to do so. His throat felt constricted.

“Congratulations, sir. You might be the proud owner of an intolerance to Ithorian rum. This will hopefully keep you clear off the swill for as long as you live.”

He cracked his eyes open again. The medical officer was near enough that he could read amusement on her deep-wrinkled tanned face. “What makes you suppose that?”

“I’ve been treating cases of that particular poisoning for… Lieutenant Kijé, you were a History student once, weren’t you? How many years ago were the Clone Wars?”

“T-twenty-five, Major—but did you mean the beginning or the end?”

“Since you know what it is, then give me some pill and let me go back to work,” snarled Veers.

“I’ll consider it after I’ve run a blood test _and_ checked how that blaster wound of yours is cicatrising. Lund, you heard me. Go fetch the kit.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Had Veers been ten years younger, he would have jumped off the bed and stormed out of the medbay—and puked his guts into the first restroom. Letting out an angry sigh, he lay down again. “Kijé.”

She staggered as if he’d slapped her.

“Cancel everything you have recorded.”

“I thought you were visiting the wounded,” she said in a small voice and without looking him in the face, as if talking to herself. “I saw a holo of General Kahdah doing that, after the pacification of Kashyyyk, such a brilliantly composed shot… I thought I could get more or less the same angle and light, and…” She drew in several quick breaths, and finally snapped into a colder voice, “As you wish, sir.”

“How did you know I would be here?” Damn, before leaving his cabin for the workday he’d spent half an hour scrubbing up in the ‘fresher; how did he still seem so wasted that Miss Propaganda could predict he would wind up in the medbay, and set a trap for him?

“She didn’t know,” said Sauris. “In fact, Lieutenant Kijé arrived here as a patient. Mild concussion, caused by a fall on a slippery durasteel floor.”

Kijé stared down at her boots. Her flaxen bob was ruffled, and a code cylinder was missing from the pocket of her tunic.

“Lucky for her a gallant stormtrooper came to the rescue.”

“But my protocol droid…” she whispered.

The skies knew what a protocol droid had to do with anything. Not his problem. Veers reached for his comlink, told the OOD to make those few minutes at the infirmary last a few hours, and prayed that Major Sauris would keep awkward questions to herself—

“In the interest of medical science, sir.” She jabbed a needle in his forearm. “How come an infantry general drinks navy booze, of all things?”


	6. Chapter 6

Central Artificial Intelligence Control Unit welcomed visitors with low illumination, a grid floor that clanged beneath Ardan’s feet, and the words _RESTRICTED AREA_ stencilled in red over the blast-proof doors.

He skulked to the lock, fought the urge to hurry back to the light and Human presence of the upper decks, and stuck the code cylinder into the terminal. Under the glove, his palm was sweaty. The lock turned with the cylinder inside it, then the keypad lit up green. The doors slid open much faster than Ardan had expected, with a shrill hiss that sent a shiver down his spine.

The restricted area was even less lit than the corridor outside. The glow of computer screens and indicators made an effort at compensation, but rather succeeded at creating a spooky environment. They flickered on and off all the time, and Ardan had to rub his sore eyes. Maintenance droids clanked up and about, only a few turning their photoreceptors on him and then disappearing into the penumbra down the cable- and console-lined corridor. Ardan could see his breath in the musty air that cycled through the cooling system.

He kept walking, learning the hard knocking toe-stubbing way he had to be the one to swerve when a droid crossed his path. There weren’t signs or doors and not a living soul around. Just cables and intermittent lights, and droids. It was degrading to be here, an officer of a warship inside the brain of the warship herself only for the ship to treat him with such cold indifference—literally cold. A mixture of revulsion and static electricity made the hair on the back of his head stand. He tried to keep to the centre of the corridor and not touch the walls, keeping his hands stuffed into his pockets. Moments like this would make a civilised sentient understand why certain primitive cultures loathe droids.

The corridor forked. Intermittent lights flashed round the corners of the diverging routes, glowing a faint blue. Ardan slowed to a halt, several steps before reaching the junction. Better to go back. Now. Now that he had done nothing but walk in a straight line. Straight lines make it easy to find the way back. Not so much when you start adding turns and one too many shady places.

The latest flash of light cast a droid’s shadow on the wall of the right corridor—a tall droid, the shadow reached up to the ceiling, then the light was gone, and Ardan’s heart was beating quite a bit fast for decency.

He spotted the domed helmet first. _Droid—?_ Then the humanoid body, the suit, the thumbs hooked onto the utility belt.

“Whatcha doin’ here all alone, luv?”

It wasn’t just the line or the slurred tone; the darkness and the cold artificial lights, too, worked together to remind him of late night homecomings and the druggie types that lurked in the deserted streets. “Failing to address an officer in the proper form,” he barked, “is punishable with detention. Now identify yourself.”

“Oi, ‘scuse me, sah.” The helmet went off to reveal spiky short hair and a youthful feminine face. Ardan would have taken the precaution to check the birth date on her ID before hitting on her at a bar. “Chief sent me to ask whatcher up to. You coulda commed from the sunny side an’ saved yerself the sweat.”

“It’s a delicate matter…” He squinted to read the identification number on the technician’s suit, in the red glow of a control panel. “…IC-19. I’ll need to talk to your superior, so take me to them.”

IC-19 propped herself against the wall and gave Ardan an I-know-something-you-don’t smile that promised nothing good. “Wasn’t the admiral or His Lordship what sent ya, aye?”

“Just take me to that chief of yours, and pray I don’t report you.” Report for what, though? Being a cheeky unhinged critter like everyone knew Central AI techs to be? Hindering an utterly unofficial and illegal investigation? Ardan shoved the thoughts and the fear to the back of his mind, hoping they weren’t spilling on his face already. Or that the tech wasn’t thinking them as well.

More of her teeth showed in her grin. “Chief’s right here, sah. Central AI’s me chief. An’ ‘tis the Lady Ex herself what wants to know, whatcha greppin’ for here?”

Ardan drew in a breath. “A CCTV feed.”

“None o’ me business.”

“Not the ordinary surveillance circuit. Aurek secrecy level.”

Shadow fell on IC-19’s face, and when light hit it again, the smug smile was gone. “His Lordship?”

“Uh—no. No. I am… investigating on a… an event that occurred last night cycle, between zero and three hour in the officers’ quarters deck—”

“Who wants do wi’ this _ee-vent_ o’ yers?”

“ _That_ is none of your business.”

“Then ain’t also none o’ me business to help ya, sah.” She turned her back on him, but before she could stomp away, Ardan caught her by the shoulder. It elicited a snarl. “Oi, leggo—”

“General Veers.”

She froze. Only then did he notice the handle of a retractable vibroblade had materialised in her palm.

“I need access to the hidden camera feeds from his living quarters between zero and three hour. The reason is classified.”

The grin reappeared in the half-light, only on one side of her face. “Ain’t that off the rocker, luv? Admiral Cold-Sweat commed me oppo an’ told him erase ‘em files off the Lady’s memory banks—ain’t stuff no dame o’ quality oughta see, if ya catch me drift.” It appeared she had seen the stuff, and enjoyed it to a level it made Ardan steel himself against a shudder. Nevertheless, it meant that what he was after still existed. With some luck.

“And did your… colleague erase those files?”

“Wanna bet, luv?”

For a few flickers of the console, they engaged in a silent staring match.

“Five hundred,” Ardan tried. “And you will erase all existing footage recorded in Lieutenant Commander Ardan’s cabin from last night at twenty-two to five.”

“Sod off.”

“Six hundred.”

“Sod off.”

“Six… six hundred fifty?”

“Sod. The feck. Off.”

He threw his arms up. “Fine! Ten hundred!” Something bumped against his legs and he spun on his heels, fists raised. A thin-bodied droid mounted on wheels pointed its only photoreceptor at him and screeched some binary gibberish.

“Ya heard me mate,” said IC-19.

“Fifteen hundred.” Ardan nearly choked on his own words. “You better damn well hope I find it worth the price.”

She beamed. “Now yer talkin’!” Shoving him aside, she leapt to a console, clamped her helmet back on, and typed fast on the on-screen keyboard; all Ardan could see were strings of letters and numbers flashing and vanishing at such a speed it made his eyes hurt.

“Here y’go, dull vanilla sex shite’s cleared an’ won’t be missed.”

Ardan bit the inside of his cheek. _I know you’re a smart cookie and don’t need the reminder but make sure you don’t leave evidence hanging ‘bout, okay?_ , Chenda had said, pressing the stolen code cylinder in his hands but not letting go of it yet. _Do you want me to go in your place?_

Thank the stars he’d insisted. A stormtrooper shooting an AI tech in the mug was the last thing the tangle of unspoken turf wars that criss-crossed the _Executor_ ’s population needed.

IC-19 stuck a datacard inside the console. “Ya wanted proof it’s beezer stuff, huh? Have a dekko while I make ya a nice copy to keep.”

Ardan stepped at her side. “It can’t harm to be informed,” he muttered.

Her laughter under the helmet sounded like a crackle of static. She pressed a tiny square on the top right corner on the monitor and dragged it until it was almost at full width. Ardan recognised the interior of a tidy cabin, shot from a high angle. The tape began to play, timestamp running at the top of the window; the cabin room slid open, two men limped inside, one of them said, “ _It’s almost like you do surprise inspections on your own room_ ,” and it was the admiral’s voice through the low background buzz of the mic. By reflex, Ardan straightened his back.

Then the nine hells broke loose.

IC-19 was a scarily competent game commentator for a female, and ignored Ardan’s weak-voiced demands the tape be fast-forwarded over what she referred to as _the rogerin’ bits_.

Despite the shell shock, at the end of the… _thing_ , he had to admit it was first-class blackmailing material.

“Well worth the bees ‘n honey, aye?” IC-19 nudged him, so low he had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep himself from shielding his crotch. The stars forbid he gave this little monster ideas.

“Indeed.”

“A pleasure to help, sah.” She handed him the datacard, which he tucked inside his pocket.

“About your, uh, service fee—”

She waved a hand. The microcircuits shone a pale blue along the utility glove like alien veins. “Already sucked that off yer bank account.”

“Oh. Fine then.” He made a mental note for his future self in admiral’s rank: clamp down hard on Central AI technicians. “Thank you for your collaboration.”

“Think nothin’ of it, luv. I had a bone to pick with Cold-Sweat. The pusser-built bastard, when he was cap’n, he sent me five days to the brig ‘cos I been joshin’ on His Lordship’s life support.” She shrugged her shoulders. “’Tis true under that mask he’s got a mug like’n overgrilled bantha patty.”

“You may return to your station,” Ardan said icily, “and carry on the good work, IC-19.”

She gave him a salute so snappy and stiff it could only be a mockery, complete with clicking heels. “Aye-aye, Lieutenant Kijé, sah!”

Another mental note: have this particular technician transferred to any ship where Lord Vader was not present.


	7. Chapter 7

“You can sit down there, Lieutenant,” said Major Sauris, looking away for a moment from the blood that was bubbling up in the syringe.

Kijé wanted nothing more than leave the medbay, lock herself up in her quarters, and have Bethan file an order to the cafeteria for a plateful of junk food and chocolate. But Sauris was kind, and a major, and should not be upset. So Kijé obeyed and sat on the unoccupied chair beside the cot that had been commandeered for the general.

Speaking of which, he grimaced when Sauris removed the needle from his arm. It couldn’t hurt much, but it served him right.

“The admiral was buying that round,” Veers said. “I couldn’t refuse.”

“Understandable, sir. Lund! Go test this blood sample.”

“You already know what I have,” the general cut in while Sauris instructed the orderly. He pulled his cap down over his eyes. “Why won’t you stuff me with pills and be done?”

“Because we both would hate it if I accidentally caused you an anaphylactic shock, sir.”

 _I wouldn’t hate it_. The lump on the back of Kijé’s head throbbed with pain again. She felt dizzy—and nothing else besides that, because Sauris had ordered her to take a mild painkiller earlier and the drug was evidently working on something else than the pain receptors. Thank the stars. She wouldn’t have survived the stay, the small talk, the general’s arrival, had she been her normal stupid self.

“Count yourself very lucky, sir.” Sauris undid the shoulder buttons on the general’s uniform. “Common symptoms of this intoxication include irritable bowels, skin rashes—” Her hand went down to unbuckle his belt, and he grabbed it by the wrist, with a flinch that sent him sitting up again.

Sauris didn’t try to pull her arm free, and her voice stayed even. “I told you I would check on your wound. Relax, sir.” Wonderful. It went straight to the big folder of stuff Annice Kijé would never be capable of doing, but would have awarded a medal to people who could.

Veers let go of the medic. In a few brusque gestures he finished opening his tunic and pulled his shirt up.

In the meantime, Sauris flexed her wrist, a frown briefly clouding her face. Kijé wished she could tell her aloud the man was a jerk and she understood all too well. Instead, she shifted on the chair, eyes locked to the floor, and let the medical officer’s chatting wash over her. As long as they ignored her presence, all would be fine. Sauris was just saying the late Admiral Ozzel was quite the boxing champ in his youth and what a pity he’d listened to the call of a naval career instead, when a “Lieutenant, ma’am?” boomed behind Kijé.

She leapt to her feet and turned, blinking at a stormtrooper who stood on attention. Then she remembered she was an officer and trained to behave like one, no matter her Basic Training had lasted a grand total of three standard months plus sick leave. “What—what is it, Trooper?”

“I found this in the corridor where you fell, ma’am.” The soldier—TFC Chenda Soult, that was her name, and Kijé couldn’t recall the ID number to save her life—extended a hand that was holding a code cylinder.

Kijé patted her tunic, felt the empty pocket, and her head spun so violently she had to sit down again. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper, casting an unreciprocated glance at the general’s cot. _Please please please, sweet stars, let them not notice_.

“Just doing my duty, ma’am.”

“You took my droid to the maintenance bay, didn’t you?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Well.” _Well my arse. There is nothing that’s going well, or that will be well_. She’d left her comlink in her quarters, and it was a safe bet that Bethan had tried to reach her several times by now, to inform her of the growing—and growingly angry— _where the hell are you, but most importantly where the hell is the new footage_ messages from Chief Kastle sitting in the inbox, ready to spring to life on the holoprojector the instant she would drag herself back home. It wasn’t the first time the interstellar vacuum around the _Executor_ seemed a more welcoming kind of space than the supposedly safe one where she lived and worked, but those other times were _past_. Gone. Shovelled down the pit of her memory, blanketed and stifled by the long era of peace that had settled in. How dared they resurface, backing the claims of that professor at Theed University who’d drone on for hours about theories of cyclical histories and the eternal recurrence of the same?

“Trooper.” The general was croakier than usual.

“Yessir?”

Kijé kept her eyes down and her breathing as slow and quiet as possible, the way most crewmembers did when Lord Vader was in the same room. At least _they_ had that valid excuse for being fearful.

“Stay here and, when Major Sauris says the lieutenant can return to her duties, go with her.”

“Yessir.”

 _What the nine hells?_ Kijé gaped at the trooper, then at the major whose frowning attention was all reserved for a thermometer, and finally at the general. He was pale and his eyes had the glassy look of fever, but he treated her to a scowl that Base-Delta-Zero-ed any attempt at arguing against the order.

 _Ugh_. Not only he thought she needed a babysitter, he also considered her so un-military as to have to be browbeaten into obeying.

The rush of anger washed off the dizziness and physical pain. “Major, I’m feeling fine. I request permission to leave the medbay.”

Sauris shot her an unimpressed look. True, it was a permanent facial feature of medical officers, but it carried a sting. “Permission granted. Don’t forget to stop at the reception and sign the discharge form.” She added in a grumble, “You bastards always forget.”

“Language, Major,” growled the general, massaging his temples.

“I was referring to the navy, sir.”

 _I am not navy. And I hope he catches the Blue Shadow plague_. Kijé slipped onto her feet, saluted as smartly as she’d ever done the two officers who weren’t even looking at her, and hoofed it out of the medbay with Trooper Soult in tow. She didn’t dare look for more than half a second at the reception desk, the medical orderly behind it and the black-uniformed trooper who stood in front of it. Important paperwork would eventually slash and burn its way to your inbox if it was important enough. Soult made no comments.

An officer walked in the opposite direction to theirs, Kijé avoided eye contact and only glanced at his uniform. Her hand flew to the empty tunic pocket. Still empty.

“Dammit!” She wheeled around. The officer turned, and so did the receptionist and, following suit, the navy trooper. Her face burned as if lava were streaming down her cheeks.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” asked Soult.

“The code cylinder. I… I left it in the ward—”

The stormtrooper held up the hand that wasn’t carrying the blaster; there the cylinder was. “Got that covered, ma’am.”

A cool breeze blew over the lava.

“Better you keep it, anyway.”

To pile up insult to injury and an extra layer of insult, Kijé’s trembling fingers dropped the damned little thing. Without a word, the trooper knelt, scooped it off the floor, and slid it inside Kijé’s pocket. Her hand rested a second longer than it was necessary on Kijé’s shoulder.

Kijé gaped at it, missed what Soult whispered to her, and eagerly followed her out of the medbay, away from the stares burning through the back of her head. When a gunnery sergeant striding down the corridor kept her eyes on Kijé for longer than a split second, it occurred to her she had no idea where they were walking; her feet sped up to escape the attention, and she bumped against Soult.

It was the trooper who apologised, “Sorry, ma’am.”

By the stars’ mercy, the turbolift was in close proximity, and an empty one opened at the first press of the call button. Soult keyed the deck code and the lift started; even so dampened an acceleration was enough to drive Kijé against the wall, while her knees knocked against each other in a feeble tremor.

“Permission to speak freely, ma’am?”

The trooper had her helmet on. It was reassuring, in the slightest bit—and you had to learn to live off those bits. Kijé could endure a few seconds of eye-to-visor-lens contact. “Granted.”

“Maybe you could’ve helped some more time in the medbay. Sure look like you need it.”

Kijé groped at her forehead and cheeks, and retreated a glove smeared with runny make-up. Double dammit. The label said sweat-proof for Humans. “I just need a ‘fresher, and to get my workload done.” She hurried to add, “But your concern is appreciated, Trooper—Chenda, right?”

“Right, ma’am.” She had a deep voice, a bit rumbling in the helmet, with an unobtrusive Corellian twang. Accent aside, it wasn’t much unlike Bethan’s programmed voice; if Bethan had been a person, Chenda could have sounded like her older, wearier sister.

Kijé smiled, not confident at all it was anything as good as her usual working smile—no mirrors around, no time to rehearse it.

The lift door slid open. Chenda blocked it with one foot over the photoelectric sensor. “I must go back to my squad, ma’am. But on my way, I can drop by maintenance bay and scare the techs a bit into fixing your droid fast.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“And I’ll comm you status updates. If that’s all right with you, ma’am.”

“Yes. Sure. Please do. Thanks.”

“Duty, ma’am.” Chenda stepped backwards into the lift, her hand flew over the keypad, and the door closed.

Barring one or two brilliant teachers, and a few brilliant scholars who’d been dead since a century ago, Kijé had never felt so close to call love for another sentient the heartbeat rising to hyperspace speed in her chest…

And it was pathetic. Being so starved for contact as to treat the first stormtrooper who happens to have a bit of brain under the helmet—a rare trait in stormies, to be fair—like some heroic saviour, or the friend of a lifetime. Dammit, she was pathetic.

She entered her quarters to find Bethan still on, just as she’d left her. The screens on the computer console glowed a faint, soothing blue. Abandoned on the floor in front of the chair, Kijé’s comlink blinked an angry red.

“ _Welcome back, Lieutenant Kijé!_ ”, chirped Bethan. “ _How are your life parameters? I have tried to access Central AI to view your medical files, but latest information appears not to have been uploaded yet._ ”

“I’m okay, Bethan, they patched me up all right.” She picked up the comlink. “Was it you who tried to comm me?”

“ _Yes, ma’am_.”

Good. She pressed the memory delete button, and the red light went off. “Sorry I made you worried.”

“ _Concern for your safety is part of my programming, ma’am_.”

Kijé wasn’t sure it was the most flattering thing in the galaxy, but it felt nice not to have to fight for at least that scrap of respect. Bless droids.

“ _You have five unanswered calls and three new messages in your inbox, flagged as priority, from Chief Alton Kastle_.”

“Oh, dammit!” She collapsed on the chair. Her head throbbed where she’d hit it, and it was a bit creepy not to feel any pain. It must be the effect of the sedative. And when that would run out, the war was going to be still there, raging and demanding. “Play the first unread message.”

“Do you wish me to activate the profanity filter, ma’am?”

“No need for that, no,” Kijé spat out, the way she wished she would have done when General Veers had ordered the stormtrooper to shepherd her to her quarters.

An half-length hologram of Kastle at his desk materialised on the projector. She avoided looking the recorded holo in the eyes, and fixed her stare on his hands, steepled between neat stacks of flimsis and datapads. “ _Hello again, Lieutenant. Do you notice anything about my desk right now?_ ” His right hand made a flicking gesture and Kijé glanced that way.

“What does this even mean…?”

The holo was silent for a few more seconds. “ _Did you take a good look? Well. I will assume you still didn’t notice what I’m talking about. There are no throwaway caf cups on my desk_.”

That was true, but still, it made no sense at all—

“ _Unlike what the entire galaxy saw of one of Death Squadron’s most respected generals_ ,” anger broke through Kastle’s even tone.

Oh, shit. Kijé clapped a hand over her mouth. That cup on General Veers’ desk. She hadn’t even entertained the thought of editing it out.

“ _I trusted you, Lieutenant. Trusted you so much as to spare myself the trouble to police your every piece of work, because I happen to be a busy person at levels you cannot even imagine—and next thing I know, the Joint Chiefs office is threatening to have me demoted and relocated to Tatooine for the damage_ you _have caused to the professional image of the army. All because_ you _were careless, or distracted_ ,” his fists clenched and banged on the desk, “ _or I don’t care what! Tell you what, I deserve it for thinking such an incompetent brat as you could be trusted to cover the_ Executor _—_ ” An incoming call signal blared, and for all his rage’s might, Kastle had to fight to overwhelm the noise, “ _Seen what I mean, Lieutenant? I’ll continue later_.” The holo disappeared.

The instant Kijé removed her hand from her face, a horrible whiny noise escaped her lips, and she clamped her stupid mouth shut again. She couldn’t trust even her own body to do a thing well, the simplest darned thing.

“ _Shall I play the second message, ma’am?_ ”


	8. Chapter 8

“Admiral, you need to see this,” Lieutenant Venka called from the comm console. Piett allowed himself a blissful instant of hope the junior officer would next declare the _Millennium Falcon_ apprehended and hauled into the well-guarded docking bay of a Star Destroyer. But not even the delusion worked. The lieutenant had spoken in too low a voice, almost conspiratorial.

Piett looked over the comm technician’s shoulder. The screen showed an outbound encrypted message of the highest security level on the _Executor_ ; each receiver was identified with a string of letters and numbers he couldn’t recall from Imperial codebooks. “What are those codes?”

“Bounty Hunters’ Guild, sir,” said Venka, cutting off the technician’s answer with ten times the dripping contempt. “They match their prize-winners’ ID codes; Fett, Dengar, Bossk, the whole collection. And as you may notice, the sender is—”

“But what do _we_ want from bounty hunters?”

Venka stood a bit stiffer. There were a dozen ways that phrase might have hurt his precious Coruscanti superiority complex—last but not least, the reminder that as long as Lord Vader was on board, whatever he wanted was what the fleet wanted. Piett himself, however, could have sworn he did not want bounty hunters.

“Aid in chasing the Rebels?” said Venka. “They all spring out of the same garbage pit of the galaxy anyway; maybe he thinks they know something useful.”

 _Yes, and Princess Organa likes to hang out in the same cantina as Aurra Sing. That’s a true piece of clever thinking. I should have transferred you to Naval Intelligence, rather than even considering you an option for promotion to captain_. The admiral raised his voice, just enough so that the crew pit could overhear with ease, “In this case, we should not give him any reason to need that kind of aid, shouldn’t we?”

“My thoughts exactly, sir.” A hint of a smile. Excluding the obligatory dose of superior-pleasing deference, that was an assent Venka must mean. If anything, because the Outer Rim parvenu of an admiral, whom he was regrettably obeying for now, at least had had the kindness to rinse the brogue off his tongue. The lieutenant moved on to spy on another console, and the technicians and petty officers typed a bit faster than they had so far; beeping and tapping small noises filled the air on the bridge. To which added up a smart thumping of boots on the walkway.

Piett bristled, though he kept the mounting anger silent, between himself and the man he glowered at. Hands clasped behind his back, head held a couple centimetres higher than it was necessary, upper body so rigid his shirt chafed against the scratches on his back, he strutted to meet Lieutenant Commander Ardan in a matching pose. “I trust you have a valid excuse for going absentee while on deck duty, Lieutenant. I am listening.”

The corners of Ardan’s mouth twitched.

 _That does it_. Whatever the sodding toff was going to say in his excuse, Piett decided, he was going to blast that rubbish down and deliver him the mother of all dressing-downs. “Come on, don’t keep all the fun to yourself,” he goaded him in a hiss.

The comeback was even quieter, “No clue at all, you toss-pot?”

A black hole tore itself open beneath Piett’s feet. The gravitational pull wrenched his guts downwards. “No clue at all.” Thank all the deities in the universe his voice was steady as usual. “And if you ever use such language again when addressing your commanding officer, consider yourself permanently reassigned to garbage disposal duty.”

The simper spread across Ardan’s face, and he snorted softly in an effort to hold back a laughter. “You forget yourself, sailor.”

This time the shock came rushing at him with the accompanying memory, all the more vivid out of his so far successful efforts to block it: Veers towering over him, pulling his trousers down, pinching his chin in a grip too strong for comfort… The jolt ran all over the body parts involved, a fluster in his cheeks and a pang between his legs, and it was tainted with fear.

“With me.” Piett didn’t bother lowering his voice, still full of menace. Let the crew think the rebuke was going to happen. He legged it along the walkway, barely noticing the junior officers and troopers who took hasty steps to move out of his line of march. As soon as the blast-proof doors of the command bridge had slid closed behind them, he whipped about and tromped towards Ardan, forcing him to recede into the niche of an unoccupied computer terminal, until his back thumped against the wall.

“You will not do what I think you’re trying to do, Lieutenant.”

“That depends on what your assumption is, sir.” A shameless grin formed on his face as he spoke. “For example, if _what you think_ is that I plan on seducing you…” He wrinkled his nose. “With all due respect, nope.”

To the ninth hell with mincing words. “Since last night you were busy elsewhere, doing something you could be drummed out of the service for, I can only assume you accessed restricted information. Far beyond your station, without the remotest hint of authorisation, and with malicious intent towards your superiors.” Piett drew a sharp breath. “I can also assume you got yourself into this mess in the false hope it was the shortcut to a captaincy.”

“Why, that—”

“It’s not worth throwing away your integrity, lad.” Not that Ardan possessed that trait in a large supply to begin with. It wasn’t a valuable survival skill in the Core Worlds. Or anywhere in the galaxy, for the time being—but _anywhere in the galaxy_ was not Admiral Firmus Piett’s ship. He stopped a millimetre short of stabbing Ardan’s chest with his index finger. “You just handed _me_ the tool to destroy _your_ career, not the other way around. Now, be very, very careful with the choice of your next words.” He asked slowly, “Why should I not use that tool?”

Ardan bit his lower lip, bowed his head, and Piett took the noise he made for a sobbing.

“Please, spare me the pathetic…”

Ardan threw his head back, in a burst of laughter so loud that Piett had to look over his shoulder and scare off a petty officer who’d slowed her gait in the corridor to watch.

Well, if that wasn’t a bad case of begging for a few days in solitary confinement. Piett was about to snatch his comlink and tell the brig crew to ready a cell, when Ardan sucked in breath and said, “My, my, you’re right, sir. Shows why you’re admiral and I… a far cry from that at the moment.” He shrugged. “Indeed, you have nothing more to hide than I have, sir. Silly of me to presume a harmless tape, brought to the attention of Lord Vader or your _many friends_ at the Admiralty, would be enough to tarnish your reputation! Or General Veers’ reputation, for that matter.”

Before his rational brain had recollected itself, Piett slammed a fist on the wall, level with Ardan’s face. Judging by the other man’s unchanged expression, the fifteen centimetres of height gap did hamper the intimidation, whereas the rank gap had already dissolved. Bloody wonderful.

“But maybe it would, huh?” Ardan’s voice fell to a saccharine murmur. “You know what merciless predators the fyrnocks on Coruscant are, once they smell blood. You know that very well.”

Piett clenched his jaw so tightly the pressure hurt his ears.

“I hope you aren’t presuming that I, personally, am a prude. For all I care, the general could bend you over a walker’s targeting console and show you Wild Space every night cycle.”

This was a punch to the guts, through and through. It sent Piett reeling one step backwards—no more than one, he forced himself not to retreat further, even though a nausea like that of the morning’s hungover awakening was flaring up at the pit of his stomach. Despite the quick sonic shower he’d taken in Veers’ quarters, he felt a sudden, sharp awareness of the dried sweat and stale smell of yesterday’s clothes he had on.

“But _they_ would jump onto every pretext to gun you down and swap you with this or that nincompoop who’s got friends in higher places than you. General Veers has a few horror stories to tell on the matter, hasn’t he?”

Piett ignored the spasm in his legs to step back as Ardan leaned over and blew a caf-laden whisper to his face, “He wouldn’t be very thankful, I suppose, if you were to shear his career now that it’s blossoming and send him back to play drill sergeant on Carida for the rest of his days. Perhaps you had a better time in the… _Axxilan anti-pirate fleet_ , was that it?” Amazing how much scorn so few words could carry, towards something that used to mean the life and soul of another man.

“Cut the chatter, Lieutenant. Blackmail it is? Your funeral.” Putting up a tough front didn’t ease much of the lump that was choking his throat. But at least he still sounded like an admiral. “State your request, and snap to it; I must return to work.”

“I slept alone last night. Didn’t I?”

The only answer was a nod. Otherwise, Piett wasn’t sure he could resist the urge to spit on him.

“Very well. Now, I’d like to thank you for promoting me to captain of the Lady Ex, sir.”

“That is impossible. I have already sent in the application form for one of your colleagues.”

Ardan gestured at the computer terminal. “But that was a mix-up of names, sir. Nothing you couldn’t fix in ten minutes. It happens, you’ve been busy and in an awful haste—”

“No.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Ardan said out loud, gone the affected mirth. He walked past Piett, bumping against the shorter man’s shoulder and muttering, “Ten minutes.”

Long experience solidified into instinct, or just pure luck, made Piett cast a glance at the corridor before reaching out to grab the bastard and serve him a quick kick to the groin. There were troopers and officers passing by, at it would take little to draw their tacit, well-masked attention—literally masked, in the stormtroopers’ case. Damn little. Ardan strode to join the pedestrian traffic, tugging his cap straight. The very picture of a good subordinate with an order to execute.

It was a small comfort, but there were far more indiscreet men to be blackmailed by. It could be worse. Anger died down like breathable air sucked out of an airlock, leaving Piett cold and empty. He turned to the console and stuck one of his code cylinders into the plug. There was a soothing quality to the smooth-working clicks and affirmative beeps. Then, keying in prompts to enter his personal log of outbound transmissions reminded him of the bounty hunters. _It’s worse_.


	9. Chapter 9

Ardan sauntered onto the command bridge walkway like he already owned the place, matching the crew’s and ensigns’ glares with what he hoped was a contented little smile, within the boundaries of good manners.

Lieutenant Venka, a datapad under his arm, met him on the viewport platform. “Well, did someone get a lucky shot and blast the _Millennium Falcon_ to scrap ore?”

“Sorry?”

Venka sagged a bit. “Ah. Nothing. You looked like you were carrying good news.”

“In a sense.” By the twitch he felt at his lips he must be beaming, and to the ninth hell with manners. “I am to be promoted captain. It’s settled—only a minor waiting time in-between, you know how bureaucracy is.”

The lieutenant blinked, then offered a polite smile as hollow as a fighter pilot’s brain. “Congratulations. On what ship? They had a vacancy on the _Devastator_ , but I assumed it had been filled by now?”

Ardan moseyed along the platform and stood by a viewport window. He patted the durasteel sill, sure the fair lady was enjoying it as much as any flesh-and-blood girl on whose legs he’d laid that same hand. “Here. On the _Executor_.”

“What?”

There was a transitory lull in the typing, beeping background noise of the crew pit.

Venka swallowed the rest of the unbecoming loud tone. “You must be mistaken. By right of seniority, that station is going to pass onto me. The admiral—”

“Has already sent in the paperwork for _my_ promotion. He just told me so.”

“ _Told_ you?” Venka’s lips flattened into a tight line.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Oh, a minute ago.” Ardan gazed into the black space, at the cross-section of asteroid belt lit by the Anoat sun, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the transparisteel; his facial features were hard to make up, save for the grin. “And to think I was on the point of resigning my commission, after the campaign on Firro…”

“Griebs, if this is a joke, start wondering why I’m not laughing.”

The use of his first name made him cock an eyebrow. “Not a joke at all, Lieutenant.” He had assumed his voice carried a sufficient combination of three quarters authority and one quarter veiled threat, but Venka seized his shoulder and turned him.

“Explain,” he rumbled.

It was the command bridge, the lieutenant was in the wrong with starting a fight, Ardan had the moral upper hand. Perhaps it wouldn’t be bad to burn some brushwood in the ranks just below his and get rid of this ambitious, hot-blooded twat, and the excuse to put him to the flamethrower was here and now on a silver plate. Why not? Jealousy warrants harsh lessons. Ardan flicked his fingers over the other man’s hand, who did not release him. “I owe you no explan—”

“Gentlemen.”

They pulled away from each other and straightened up on attention.

“There are more proper places to sort out arguments.” The admiral glared at both of them, mask of cool professionalism fastened back into place. “One such place is the brig.”

“Sir, we—” tried Venka.

“Did you find anything?”

“Find… Pardon me, sir?”

“The _Millennium Falcon_ , for example?”

Now, this was scary talking. Flat, quiet, menacing. Perhaps this shrimp of an admiral could have a use in his current post, after all. Until the captain’s badge on Ardan’s uniform rusted and needed replacing.

“Not yet, sir, no. No news from the rest of the squadron, save for...” Avoiding to look the admiral in the eyes, Venka presented him the datapad display. “This is the latest update on the small vessels destroyed or damaged.”

Piett glanced at the list, his only comment being, “It can’t be helped.” Then he issued a lot of orders—minor ships to be tractor-beamed by the bigger ones, cross-checks of asteroid field maps, state of turbolaser batteries, state of shields, reports of TIE patrols… you could only assume he’d thought them all up to steam off the humiliation, or that his counterattack plan was kill off Ardan by exhaustion like some embittered corporal would try on a gormless recruit, and in none of the nine hells Ardan was going to give him such a satisfaction—orders that happened to send the two lieutenants to opposite sides of the crew pit.

Before turning and going, Ardan winked at the admiral. Piett spun on his heels and made for a comm console where he looked over the technician’s shoulder, clearly with no interest in the readouts.

That was the kind of gold that kept one slogging through hours of shift almost as efficiently as double-shot caf. Almost.

When the end of the shift came, Ardan suppressed a yawn while updating the officer who relieved him, and on the lift out of the comm tower he got wedged between a squad of stormtroopers and the wall: a blurry moment later, he jerked up his head and blinked, to find the cubicle empty and the door open to a portion of unfamiliar corridor.

It took effort to make a standard-designed section of spaceship seem unfamiliar, and whoever occupied this deck had managed it by means of several posters adorning the wall. Mostly stormtrooper corps recruitment stuff, offering a visual compendium of the many shapes a buckethead’s helmet could be stylised into and matched with blocky sans-serif slogans.

Shit. Closest stormtroopers’ quarters were a twenty minutes’ ride from the comm tower, and he’d slept the whole time; bucketheads being bucketheads, they hadn’t thought of waking him up. Unless it had been a deliberate, lame, and most unfunny prank. He hastily punched in the code for one of the galley decks, but stopped before pressing the start button.

Sure, it was careless to seek her now in the open, but he owed her one. Big time. And he had the admiral at his beck and call to pull rank, should he get into awkward situations.

He meandered down the corridor, a lonely drab spot among the white armours of the troopers and the black overalls of their officers; there were few of them around. He approached one with a lieutenant’s badge on her chest, and asked more nicely than he’d credited his tired self for: she said, “Not a problem, sir,” and commed Trooper First Class TK-838 to get here.

“So, how are things going here, Lieutenant?” he asked out of politeness, leaning with his back to the wall and fixing his sleepy eyes on the other officer. He nodded with practiced faux interest at the umpteenth account of stinky AT-AT holding bays and corpse-filled trenches in the snow. This lieutenant had neither a particularly good way with words, nor cute lips to speak them. At some point, he cast a glance at the corridor and saw a stormtrooper stride towards them—one of the many who went up and down the corridor, and yet _her_ gait had tell-tale signs. A click of the heels on the floor, a minimal tilt of the head, the way her fingers curled over the blaster she held. He had learnt them all.

Ardan nodded to the stormtrooper in the cold officer-to-plasma-fodder respectful fashion. _Hello, dear_. She saluted back, straight on attention. _Hey, babe_.

“The admiral wanted to hear about that accident you helped the political officer through.” _We have him, dear. We did it!_ “You are to follow me to the bridge.”

The tilt changed of a few degrees, angling towards the stormie lieutenant.

The latter narrowed her eyes. “Sir, permission to ask what happened?”

“Ah, the political officer slipped in a corridor,” said Ardan, “and Trooper Soult here happened to be there and hauled her to the medbay.” A bit pecked the lieutenant had turned back to glare at Chenda while he was halfway through the explanation, he added, “A trivial incident, but the admiral is… somewhat wary. On deck we just say yes and obey.”

“You know who else’s going to be wary?”

 _To be wary, ‘sir’_. A naval lieutenant outranks a dirt lieutenant.

“Captain Visdei.”

Chenda’s company commander, if he wasn’t mistaken. “I’m sure the captain has more urgent matters to work on than question the admiral’s orders.” Unlike a certain chatty lieutenant who loiters about instead of doing whatever an officer of her branch is supposed to be doing. The subtext hit home: the lieutenant swallowed, said, “Likely, sir,” saluted and left.

“Let’s go,” Chenda murmured, “before you land me in real trouble.” She led him at the quick step through the corridor, and he could tell by the posters on the wall it wasn’t the same turbolift shaft he’d come on his way in. They entered the cubicle, Chenda dialled a code on the keypad, the doors closed in the face of a sergeant who didn’t leg it fast enough, the lift started. An index finger, belonging to a hand covered in black glove and white armour, poked Ardan’s chest so hard he winced. “This isn’t how you keep a low profile.”

“I—”

“Next time, just comm me. Better yet, ask my CO, and ask politely, for stars’ sake. Let the chain of command do the work for you. I have superiors to answer, y’know. Wouldn’t be smart to piss ‘em off.”

He cast a glance around. “Are you sure it’s safe to speak freely…?”

“No cameras and no bugs. Stormies notice these things first, believe it or not.”

“In that case…” He grabbed her waist, pushed up the helmet, and planted a smacking kiss on her harrumphing mouth. It left a trail of drool on the cleft of her chin.

She shoved him aside with the butt of her blaster, letting the helmet fall back down. “I take it all went according to plan?” There was a measure of amusement in her voice. Stars, he was so happy she loved him.

“I’ll be made captain. Soon. As soon as the bureaucracy understands ‘soon’, but you know, it’s settled. That’s what matters.”

“And the admiral? How did he…?”

“Wish you could’ve seen! I scared the living hell out of him. If I’d asked him to drop his pants, turn, and spread his legs—aw, come on, don’t give me that look! I kid, I kid.”

“How do you know what look I’m giving you?”

He shrugged, still beaming. “Am I wrong?”

“Course no. This won’t stay a laughing matter forever, babe. You thought what his move’s going to be?”

“His move?”

The sigh was audible through the helmet filter. “Are you deluded the brass is that easy to bully? With just a sex tape?”

“Well, as far as leverage goes, it’s working.” On Piett, at least. Leverage or not, Ardan wasn’t very much looking forward to try his luck with Veers and his one metre ninety of infantry badness; he had no practical reason to blackmail the general, anyway, and damn him to the ninth hell if he was picking a useless fight with someone who could and would pack hard punches.

“They’ll get me, too,” Chenda went on. “I need to know what I’m going to tell ‘em. Is it true the admiral wants to see me now?”

“No! It was just an excuse to talk in private. Where are we going, by the way?”

“Command bridge.”

He shivered, couldn’t help it. Bloody tiring shift. “At least we have plenty of time for anything private. Come on, get that bucket off, let me give you a—ow!”

Her fist on his solar plexus seized the flap of his uniform. “Got busy hands, babe.” She waved the blaster. “You take it off me.”

She was lovely when she acted commanding. Got him shaky-legged. The helmet clattered to the floor. His lips slid along the blaster burn scar that cut from her jawline to the ear. “If they ask you anything, play dumb. Absolute fucking dumb who knows nothing and sees nothing.” Her hair, pulled back in a tight bun, smelled of sweat and plasteel. “Confirm every prejudice about stupid bucketheads they have.”

“Fuck off.” She let go of his tunic, drew her arm ‘round his waist and gave his buttocks a squeeze.

“Let—let me handle everything. I won’t disappoint.”

A chuckle. “Don’t play the big strong boy on me, Griebs.” She craned her neck and their mouths met, but it was to prod him aside rather than to kiss. “What else can you get from the admiral?”

“You name it, I—” He gasped. “…I fetch it. I pull his strings now. Do you have something in mind?”

Chenda was silent, her forehead resting between his neck and his shoulder, for a few long seconds that were worth every hour of Ardan’s shift. “Everything he knows, you must get to know it, too,” she purred. “Plans, codes, manoeuvres, personnel, supply lines, spec ops.”

“What for?”

“Because that’s what a smart captain who’s aiming for a rainbow jacket should do. Apprenticeship, I think that’s the word?”

Irritation stung its way through the pleasure. “For that, there was my time at the academy.” And combat duty. Firro.

“What I mean is, you gotta gain an edge over the admiral. In everything, all the time.”

“I won that edge the moment I got you and he got General Veers.”

She laughed, nuzzling into his shoulder. “You’ve got to play him for a fool like he did to Ozzel.”

“Now, who’s making it easy to bully the brass…?” As much as he hated to, he stepped out of the embrace. “What do we do with Veers? Any idea?”

“The same. Get him to tell you things.”

“Things?”

“Things. I dunno, pretend you’re a Rebel spy: what classified information would you blackmail a senior officer for?”

“This is outrageous.” Ardan himself could hear that he didn’t sound appalled. Well, a bit of symbolic resistance is a must-do before a formal capitulation.

“It’s clever thinking, babe. Knowledge is power.”

“And do I have to share it?”

A pause. “Would be nice to know if I gotta pack up extra socks next planetside mission, I guess.”

 _Shared knowledge = shared responsibility_ lit up in his mind like astrogation maths on the holoprojector, back at the academy. “Fine.” He looked down at what her fingers were doing to the front of his trousers. His cheeks caught fire, and he fell back against the closed door, gathering all his strength to keep his legs upright. “How—how long until we reach the bridge?”

If there was a spoken answer, the roar of his bloodstream in his ears muffled it.


	10. Chapter 10

“Major, I’ve been here for two hours—”

“One hour and forty-seven minutes, sir,” interjected a 2-1B flanking Major Sauris.

“—and I told you the nausea is gone. I’m fine. I should know a thing or two about how _I_ am feeling, right?”

“Nice try, General,” said Sauris, rather gentle than mocking. Veers didn’t know what was worse.

The major would excuse herself and disappear with droids and orderlies in tow. He would try to sleep. Even though someone had taken his boots off, the positions he rolled back and forth to on the thin mattress of the cot awoke a dull pain in his back. Nothing at all to do with him getting old: the pain was too suspiciously low down his spine.

He would try to sleep, suffer for long minutes, shift from his undamaged side to flat on his back, suffer again, lie on his side. And so on. When he did doze off, he would have to force himself out of the dreams fast, feel grudgingly glad for the grounding effect of the back pain, brush non-existent lint off his lap to check nothing was swelling, focus his thoughts on paperwork, the battle, the walkers, when to schedule the next drill—until Major Sauris reappeared.

“Major, I’ve been here for three hours!”

And so fucking on.

After an ungodly long time, the intolerance to rum diagnosis got its official confirmation from the tests, Sauris agreed to inject him some medicine, the nausea and the headache were gone for real, and he was discharged with a brand new bacta patch under the uniform, smaller to accommodate the shrinking size of the wound, and yet itchier and tighter than the old one.

He had barely marched out of the medbay, when his comlink beeped. He’d left it switched on, but his OOD had been smart and never called. Nor had let anyone else call him. Which could only mean, it was someone high up enough to bypass the aide—or it was an emergency.

“Veers,” he snapped into the device, steeling himself for nothing good.

“Admiral Piett speaking,” in the most formal command bridge-ese. “General, your presence is requested on the bridge as soon as possible.”

“I—”

The comm went off.

Well, shit. It had to happen. _Sorry if I gave you false hopes, General, but last night was madness/unprofessional/best forgotten/a temporary caprice and I’m actually married to a gorgeous woman and father of eight wonderful kids._ A million reasonable, understandable points in the cold light of day cycle. It wasn’t that he was disappointed, at all—you don’t break up a relationship that was never one to begin with. Granted, a few I-love-you-s had been spoken—he shook his head before the images and sensations returned too vividly—but every prostitute in the galaxy who ever slept with a soldier could testify to their bullshit…

An army captain chanced to pass by him and salute. Veers stopped her and asked her something pointless about what he remembered of the combat report she’d sent in and he’d read in the morning. Just to keep his mind off the fact he had compared his commanding officer to a prostitute.

No, no, it wasn’t disappointment nor surprise. Veers just wasn’t expecting it this soon. Blasted navy men. They’re only tolerable as long as you’re drunk. And his liking for drunkenness-inducing substances had taken a hell of a rapping. _Holy stars, let it be a work call and nothing else._

He dismissed the captain and legged it to the lifts. They were uncrowded on this deck, and he was spared any travel companion. In the empty lift, he gave himself a quick once-over: straighten a bit of bunched up trousers below the knee, make sure the buckle of the belt hasn’t slid over to a hip, smooth the hair under the cap. No need for mirrors to tell whether you are fit to be seen or not, after you get a feel for it with the years and the races to answer a CO’s call.

A datapad under his arm, the admiral was standing behind a comm technician, at the nearest terminal to the command bridge main door. He spotted Veers first, and immediately walked up to meet him. “Good day, General.” Not a hint of a smile. Piett’s uniform was still in a miraculous wrinkle-less state, and his eyes were no deeper sunken than any other day, for any other reason why the man had had to cut down sleeping hours. Even the bite marks on his lips had disappeared.

“Admiral. I apologise for calling in sick. I didn’t imagine it’d take so long.”

The admiral blinked, giving him the quickest head-to-toe glance. Whatever he guessed from Veers’ parade-ground rigid stance and creases on the tunic the general only now became aware of, it caused a full-blown frown to darken his tired mug.

Veers fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes. What was the toff expecting? It was his fault if the general today wasn’t up to his standards of spit-polish.

“Were you in the medbay when I commed you?” asked Piett.

“I just got out of it, thank the stars.”

Piett waited a few seconds for a petty officer to pass past them. “I thought you were a bit pale,” he said in a low voice. “You don’t look like you were ready for discharge.”

“Did you make me walk all the way to command bridge to express concern for my welfare, sir?”

The glare the admiral shot him said, _How the hell did you make it to general with that mouth of yours?_ “It’s part of my job. And these replacement orders are part of yours.” He plopped the datapad in Veers’ arms. “Read them, sign them, then you may go back to your office. Major Tantor has been trying to contact you—”

“Admiral, sir.” The tech whirled on his chair. “Lord Vader’s opening a channel.”

Both officers went stiff. A monitor lit up to show the commander-in-chief. The camera framed him from the shoulders up, and took in a bit of stark white walls that made the mask and the helmet glint a razor-sharp bright. “Admiral,” called the vocoderised rumble.

Piett took a couple stride forwards, more than it was necessary. Maybe to get away from Veers. Where he stood, placed between him and the monitor, he must be blocking the view to Vader. “Yes, my lord?”

“You are aware I have summoned a handful of bounty hunters to track down and capture the _Millennium Falcon._ ” Veers felt the datapad slip from his hands. He clutched it tight. Bounty hunters? What? He stared at the nape of the admiral's neck, where the tips of his hair stuck wet to rash-like red skin.

“Yes, my lord, I—”

“You will gather them up on the command bridge as soon as all of them have docked. Afterwards, I expect you to provide all the assistance they need.”

Piett squared his shoulders. “Share military-grade intel with mercenaries, sir?” His voice was flat, either with sheer shock or well-contained outrage. One thing was clear: it wasn’t just the usual fear of Lord Vader.

“And money. Equipment. Supplies. Everything they require to complete their task.”

The stress had been on money. Veers could have sworn it was a display of humour. Imagine explaining a thousand-credits expense for bounty hunters’ fees at a naval budget meeting on Coruscant...

“In the meantime, keep combing through the asteroid field, and issue a reminder to all commands that the Rebel crew must be taken alive. I won’t tolerate any slacking off.”

“As you wish,” Piett said, clenching his fists so hard they twitched. The monitor went blank. The tech glanced up at the admiral, then pretended there was something on his console that required a lot of attentive typing.

What in blazes had that been all about...?

Piett turned, and Veers clacked his teeth.

He had seen the previous admiral in various states of ire; the only thing he’d ever had to fear from an angry Ozzel had been a complaint to the high-ups loud and furious enough that they saw it fit as punishment to freeze Veers’ career. Again. That was no small deal. Not at all. Yet, the old man had never given him a frisson of real fear; few beings could, after all the times he’d been around to watch Lord Vader on a battlefield. The livid shrimp that lurched back to him, however, with one look had Veers avert his gaze and duck for cover, to whatever was written on the datapad.

The screen was open to a note: _I can’t talk here. Visit me in the admiral’s quarters tonight at 22:30. Watch out for surveillance cameras_. A triple underline graced the final sentence. The hand was curly and elegant, a bit slanted to the right. Veers unclasped the stylus from the top of the datapad and ruined the pretty page with his angular longhand: _Hold fast_. A bit shakier than usual. Hell, his writing had never been shaky. It must be a side effect of the meds, plus fatigue. It must.

“Thanks.” Piett eyed the datapad; the only concession his anger did was a brief quirk at the corners of his mouth. ‘Smile’ was too much of a compliment. “Now, General—”

 _Back to work, this instant_ , thought Veers but he didn’t say it. Better not take the risk and make him snap.

“...you are dismissed. I apologise for the inconvenience.” The undercurrent of rage cracked through his voice, too. If ever there had been a least heartfelt apology, here it was. Veers had spoken his fair share of them, so many his own stomach burned in sympathy with how the admiral must be feeling.

“None at all, sir.” At least he did mean it. He saluted and got on his way out, casting one glance back before the door hissed open: Piett was standing at the end of the corridor where he’d left him, fists still clenched, stare fixed upon a random point in the air. He didn’t strike Veers as the type who would smash a datapad to the nearest wall, or chew out an ensign’s arse over a minor mistake real or imaginary. But Veers couldn’t help a soft sigh of relief as the command bridge door closed behind him. He wouldn’t have to be there and handle the admiral at his worst.

Later tonight, if said admiral had it in him to try and treat Veers to his bad mood, one to one, in a locked room that contained a bed...

A slight warm rush washed over Veers’ face. The heels of his boots screeched on the floor as he took an abrupt turn towards a restroom. He targeted a free sink and went to splash cold water on his cheeks. Shit, he’d forgotten to take his gloves off. The reflection that scowled at him from the mirror had dark rings under the eyes, but knowing his own skin, the blush could’ve been worse. It had been worse, in his youth. He tore the wet gloves off and splashed another handful of water all over his face. _Get a hold of yourself, soldier_. It was so cold he gritted his teeth. _How starved must you be, if a drunk shag with another officer could throw you all the way back to the first time you slept with Eliana?_

He pushed aside every thought of her. A decade’s worth of practice had made it so effortless it was depressing. He cranked up the tap to maximum cold; pins and prickles stung his face, his fingertips turned purple and numb under the flow.

In the mirror he saw a younger officer behind him, crossing gazes with his reflection. The officer flinched and made a dash for a stall. Idiot. The general wouldn’t have noticed he was hatless, his tunic wrinkled and his hair unkempt, if only he had kept his cool and not bolted away like a street thug from a police speeder. Strange, though. His face was familiar. The bridge officer four cabins away from Veers’, yes. Lieutenant Ardour, or Arrow. Veers considered knocking on the stall door and warning the boy the admiral was in a foul mood, so he better make himself presentable before showing up on the bridge. Had the restroom been empty, maybe—but no. Let shoddy young officers learn on their skin how bad an idea it is to piss off the new admiral.

The water ran out. He ripped a tissue off the dispenser and rubbed his hands dry. Cold and scarred and rough-skinned. Better suited to touch a sailor than a wife, anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

Twenty years in the navy meant living through plenty of bad days. Some worse than others, others worse than worst. Piett was too old to delude himself the service would fix itself into perpetual ease and joy as soon as the rainbow badge adorned his uniform; flying his fleet into an asteroid field on his first day as admiral, being blackmailed by a subordinate and ordered to call in a bunch of cut-throats to do _his_ and _his fleet_ ’s job on his second day, however, pumped liquid nitrogen in his bloodstream.

His whole frame was shaking, and he ground his teeth to keep them from chattering aloud. The wall in front of him was begging for the datapad under his left arm to be crushed on the durasteel. And a bridge crew of over thirty people always produced someone, somewhere, who’d made a stupid blunder, anything that warranted a harsh scolding. Now he understood Lord Vader. It must work temper-releasing wonders to choke the life out of someone. He understood Admiral Ozzel, too. The lure of bullying a subordinate for the hell of it, to pull boots back on a power otherwise best exercised in signing paperwork, and stomp them onto a sentient’s face.

With a slow, hyper-controlled motion he raised the datapad and pressed the standby button. The screen lit up.

_Hold fast._

Ugly handwriting, all rough edges, splurging over thrice the space as his. But very readable, leaving nothing to doubt and ambiguity. It summed up the man well.

“Admiral,” someone called from the crew pit.

In one quick swipe he deleted the note. The few strides to the walkway blew the hottest steam off his fury, and he reached dinner time without making an Ozzel reincarnated out of himself.

In the main mess hall, where an admiral was expected to eat out and the drinks were most expensive, dinner was served at 21:00, but no one would object if the admiral showed up late. As Piett told the officer of the watch, a Lieutenant Kallic: reports follow their own rule of space-time.

“Sorry to hear that, sir.” The lad—pale, with a face made more boyish by the protruding ears and a gap in his front teeth—acted the sincere sympathy well. Perhaps he meant it.

“Get used to it, if you haven’t already.”

“I will, sir.”

For the first time today, Piett smiled. That brand of junior officers humour, lying under a well-layered varnish of deference, barely visible unless you searched for it—he’d always preferred it to the fouler-mouthed cantina jokes. He gave the lieutenant a quick pat on the shoulder as they went one towards the bridge, the other towards the door. Kallic could use encouragement, and every living being with more manners than the Central AI techs deserved gratitude for the simple fact they existed.

The chief technician on watch in Central AI was a washed-out blue Human-Pantoran hybrid in his sixties, whisked out of a Cybernetics faculty on Alderaan long before the planet became _that much_ of a problem. The workstation he nested in made an effort at eyesight-saving illumination, spare parts staying crammed into boxes and shelves, and cigarette fags and empty caf cups in the trash bin where they belonged, rather than littering the floor; on a better day, Piett would have appreciated the level of civilisation.

Upon questioning, though, Chief Yinsi ruined every good impression by trying to play daft as a Gungan.

The instant Piett planted a foot on the refitted droid that crept by him, eliciting a screech in binary, the tech transmogrified into a throwback to the heydays of the Axxilan anti-pirate fleet: _Fine, fine I will talk, but please don’t harm my children_. Or whatever they cared the most in the universe, which, pirates being pirates, seldom happened to be their biological offspring.

Despite the tech’s fullest and eagerest to please collaboration, going through the logs was fruitless. No external accesses, no tampered data except for the recurring memory bank cleanings. Surprise no surprise, all recordings of Lieutenant Commander Ardan’s room from the Aurek-level CCTV had been flushed out with the rest of the superfluous data, all according to schedule, down to the millisecond. “At least _one_ thing is commendable here, Chief Yinsi.”

Oblivious to praise and irony, Yinsi was holding the droid in his arms, whispering to it in Pantoran. The droid in question, with a chassis assembled from a scrap of semi-flexible duct, twitched and shook its gigapede-like legs in a constant rattle. The damn critter belonged under a boot ready to crush it.

“...Musil, Andric,” Piett read aloud the rosters of the lower level techs on the past day’s watch, to muffle the bug legs noise, “Bely, Colving—” _Colving, Colving. Yes_. He tapped on the technician’s name to open the personal file. Lia Colving, Informatics Core 19, Taloraan City School of Applied Sciences valedictorian, aged eighteen. The face on the mug shot was properly combed and wearing a proper uniform, but he still recognised it before scrolling down to the detention notice, three weeks prior. A stupid kid who thought Lord Vader’s breathing apparatus was an acceptable laughing matter.

Today she had started her shift at 9:00 and ended it at 17:00; a secondary log showed she had added material to the memory banks deletion queue for the clearing scheduled at 14:30. Piett massaged his chin—the faint pain of a bruise took him aback for a split second, then he made a mental note call General Veers, later tonight, exactly the brutish dirt-pounder he was. When had Ardan stormed out of the command bridge? It was after lunch break. Sometime between 13:00 and 15:00. Even taking into account the total thirty minutes of ride from the bridge to Central AI and back, the time window was wide.

He turned to the tech. “Do you suppose Technician Colving is one to hold grudges?”

“Lia?” Yinsi ran his fingers along the droid’s belly. The rattle grew into a twang. Piett knew in that instant, from the taut feeling at the pit of his stomach, he was going to pass up a full dinner. The chief tech was silent for a while, and just when Piett was about to ask again a lot less amiably, he shrugged. “You know how teenagers are, Admiral.”

“Was it you who gave her the clearances to access the Aurek-level security feed?”

Yinsi’s jaw dropped. His hand froze on the bug-droid’s belly, and with it the rattle, thank the stars. “Sir, I don’t have those clearances myself! And if I had them, the last person I’d entrust—”

“Who does?”

“Well... The admiral.” He counted on his fingers. “Lord Vader and the Emperor. Joint Chiefs superior officers. Everyone holding rank of Grand Moff. The COMPNOR liaison officer.” He fell silent, counted his five fingers again a couple times, absent-mindedly cradling the droid with his other arm as it started to beep and whistle in protest. “A lot of bigwigs to hold on one hand, don’t you think?”

Piett moved away from the console and gestured at the tech to come forth. “Show me who accessed those data today.”

“Sir, I can’t do that because you ask me. It’s against the procedure—”

 _Yes, the procedure that no such thing is ever done without a five-digits greasing_. “Your old colleagues on Alderaan are all dead, Chief Yinsi. Do you ever feel guilty to be alive?”

Yinsi opened and closed his mouth several times, then gaped at the droid, as if to seek for suggestions. “It was only my workplace, sir.” The monotone ring of a memorised speech. “ I wasn’t Alderaani myself.”

“I have the authority to set course for the Graveyard, you know.” Piett stepped up and strode towards him, forcing him backwards until Yinsi’s back thumped against a scaffold. “I can drop you out of an airlock. Give you the chance to join them now.”

The droid buried its head, furbished with protocol droid’s photoreceptors, in the front of Yinsi’s suit. The technician laid on it a firm, protective hand, then inhaled deeply. “I’ll need one of your code cylinders, sir.”

Piett went to plug it into the terminal.

In the meantime, Yinsi lay the droid inside a box at the top of the scaffold. Piett’s Pantoran was next to non-existent, but it was a safe assumption what Yinsi said went along the lines of ‘stay put’.

He stood looking over Yinsi’s shoulder as the technician unlocked and went through the logs at a speed that, the admiral had to concede it, justified the presence of this old brain-fried computer geek on board. And his presence among the living.

“It’s this.” Yinsi, at last, circled a red highlight mark around a string of numbers and a timestamp. He squinted at the screen, muttering. “...No, no, not him—definitely the COMPNOR liaison officer, yes.”

“Not that I mistrust your ability to commit things to memory, but for stars’ sake, Chief, just cross-check the code!”

A new window obediently popped up next to the highlighted code: _match found_ in green blinking Aurebesh, and a rank, an ID number, a name.

“Copy and upload this portion of the logs to my cylinder,” Piett said in a voice too low for an order. Yinsi complied; when he made to unplug the cylinder, Piett halted him. “One last thing. I want you to deactivate the surveillance cameras in the admiral’s living quarters.”

The old man shifted on his seat, but started typing without hesitation. “Someone at NavIntel is not going to like this, sir.”

“None of your concern.”

Yinsi glanced up. His fingers didn’t slow down a millisecond on the keyboard. “No concern as in, you’re taking full responsibility? Or no concern as in, you will hold me accountable for the security breach, and I’ll be dead so I won’t be physically capable to be concerned?”

Playing daft, playing innocent and harmless, then all of a sudden dropping the mask and exposing the hidden reserve of cunning. A good beggar’s secret to survival. Piett smiled. “You’re truly pushing for that detour to Alderaan, aren’t you?”

“I need to know for my children, sir. Insurance policy cuts off compensations for orphans and widows if an Imperial employee is executed for...” He shrugged the word _treason_ off. Piett let it slide that Yinsi was not married and had no known issue—it was hard to picture, even—lest it turned out he referred to monstrosities such as the bug-droid as his children.

 _Data upload complete_ blinked on the screen.

“Let’s put it this way, Chief: it’s none of your concern as long as this little chat remains between us.” The admiral pulled the code cylinder out of the terminal and put it back in the pocket, smoothing microscopic creases on the uniform.

“Yes, sir. Aye, sir.”

With that, Piett could leave Central AI, almost as relieved to be out of it as the technician was. One flag captured for Team Firmus. Now...

A look at the chrono made him decide to skip dinner, even a sandwich at the vending machine, and head straight to his quarters. He could always have something delivered later, provided Veers didn’t mash his skull with the nearest blunt object available, after hearing about the mess they were in—that Piett had flown him in.

Beside the room service, the admiral’s quarters were his mother’s dream come true: as large as the apartment his family of five used to occupy on Axxila when he was a kid, and all that space was to host lacquered synth-wood furniture, a retractable desk with a built-in computer, holoprojector and comm device tuned to every channel on the ship, escape pod hatch in plain view (in the Republican era, a naval jack would have elegantly hidden it and reminded the resident admiral they would have to tear off their honour before making an inglorious escape as opposed to going down with the ship), two-meters-per-one monitor, a folding screen shielding a bed that could accommodate a clan of Wookiees, a ‘fresher with marble linings and no consumption-limiting timer on the water taps, a refrigerator, and the Nutrimatic drinks dispenser.

There was no trace of Ozzel’s belongings—no trace of the old man’s existence at all. It was procedure; collection of a deceased CO’s personal effects began as soon as the death notice was logged into the ship’s computers. Which had been Piett’s first order as admiral, the second being: _and dispose of the body_.

The happiest moment of his life.

Weren’t three years of unfaltering service under an insufferable superior, three years of paperwork and having to carry out orders so poorly thought they wouldn't let him sleep at night cycle, every day a constant struggle to keep bad things from going horrible—weren’t they a price high enough for it?

He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a few bottles of wine, and curled his lips as he studied the labels. So, a trace of his predecessor had remained: the terrible selection of booze. You cannot get drunk on... what in blazes was a ‘Lothal Rosé Grand Reserve’? He uncorked the bottle, sniffed and drank. Grape-flavoured piss. So bland the longer mouthful that followed was as safe as mineral water.

The doorbell rang.

 _Shit, he’s early_. Piett slammed the refrigerator closed and dashed to the door. _Or not him_. But whoever needed him on the bridge, for whatever reason, could’ve commed him. On the small monitor above the lock keypad appeared the general, so tall the image had his cap cropped off. He was looking at somewhere in the corridor, face set in the usual frown.

Piett pushed a button on the keypad and the door slid open with a soft hiss.

Wide-eyed surprise replaced the frown. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Excuse me...? Ah, the wine. Yes, I agree. Past management’s fault.” Piett lifted the bottle and motioned Veers inside.

The door shut, smooth and discreet.

“Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.” Veers pulled a chair, paused to take off his gloves and his cap and lay them in a neat stack on the table, and sat down. He took a deep breath; it resounded so loud in the quiet room, that Piett felt an irrational spark of embarrassment at the drumbeat of his own heart.

“Care for a drink?” he asked, after too many seconds of silence.

“Anything as long as it’s alcohol-free.”

Well, he wasn’t missing out on good wine anyway. Nevertheless, for some reason he’d rather not explore, Piett felt mortified. A little bit. Enough of a weight to sink _General, you’ll need a stiff drink to stomach what I have to tell you_ back down his throat. He chucked the bottle in the garbage chute, and tapped on the Nutrimatic for two cups of green tea. The machine spat out the plastifoam cups and the smoking hot liquid at a speed that would have made three generations of late Mrs Pietts jump in joy, then spend the whole tea party speculating on how much the gizmo cost.

He lay the cups on the table and sat down on a chair facing the general.

“Thank you, sir,” Veers said, looking down... no, not at the teacup, at his own hands.

Piett made an effort not to groan. “We agreed to go by first names, didn’t we?”

A nod was the only reply.

If ever there was a good chance to break the news to him, it was right now; this quiet, this stillness, the deactivated cameras. But it was cruel to deliver such a sniper bullet to someone while they were having their tea. A few minutes more, what harm could they do? Besides, Piett had had the machine add sugar to his tea, and hungry as he was, even that minimum intake was better than nothing.

After what felt like several more minutes than they must be, Veers broke the silence, “Nervous?”

“You have no idea.”

“With all due respect, I have. I remember how it is to go out on a date.” He blew steam off the teacup. “A proper date, unlike the back alley hit-and-run missions you favour in the navy.”

“Inter-service slander doesn’t make this easier.”

“It’s not slander, it’s banter. With my girlfriend it worked so well that we married.”

Piett stared at him, unimpressed. With the explanation, at least. Veers seemed younger when he smiled. In his prime, he must have been quite the stunner. Lucky girl. For what it had been worth. As far as Piett recalled of Veers’ personal file, the general was a widower. “So, I am to take every petty name you call me and every disparaging remark you make on the navy as terms of endearment, aren’t I?”

“It would keep you in good humour.”

“Oh, please.” The tea had cooled a lot, and allowed him to take a generous sip. It flowed the wrong way down his throat as something lodged itself between his legs, at knee height, and slowly rubbed up and down his left boot. He swallowed the cough and stayed still, not helping the other man’s foot to nudge his legs spread. But neither resisting it. His leg jerked under the caress, and he curled his toes.

Veers drank in his turn, a smug grin all in his eyes. A part of Piett’s mind, that ought to bloody clam up, remarked he looked better with bedroom hair, but the slicked, parted on the left regs-friendly ‘do wasn’t bad either. Stars, to forget everything and just sink his fingers into that silver-streaked blond hair... He lowered the cup centimetre by centimetre, and pulled off his gloves; anything to hide the slight tremor of his hands. “Stop that, Max.”

Veers’ foot froze in place, at the back of Piett’s knee. It didn’t withdraw.

_Son of a Hutt._

“May I know why?” asked Veers. “You seemed to enjoy it.”

“It’s distracting.”

“Very well.”

Piett clamped his legs together, crossing them tight. “It’s a serious matter, and we need to talk. That’s the only reason why you’re here.” His heart felt heavy, quick as it was beating.

“Fine. Let’s talk.” Veers put the cup down; it made a soft but definite thump on the table. His stare melded Piett’s tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I have little explanation for what we did last night. Except for drunkenness and… a bit of an edge on my part. You know what drove you better than I do.”

 _One word: desperation_.

“This doesn’t change the fact I behaved like an animal.” His serious, intent eyes wandered towards the folding screen that hid the bed. Then he rose.

A surge dangerously similar to panic jolted Piett on his feet, too, so close to Veers he could smell the fleet-issue aftershave lotion. “Wait, don’t go.” His blood curdled at the begging tone. He didn’t notice that a pair of hands had placed themselves on his hips, until they squeezed. The shock was gentle, and yet he felt the first tug of a hard-on. Damn it, not now. “Max, listen, I swear this is important. Last night was an accident that could cost us—”

“And do you want it to stay that way?” Veers didn’t pull him closer. Not yet. “ _I_ don’t, damn me. I’m a bloody fool, alright. And I’ve been flying solo for too long. Call me a dirt-brain, I won’t try to argue. But say the word, and I will proceed to love you stupid. Very deliberately, in full possession of my faculties, soberer than any sentient should ever be.” Had they not been standing so close, Piett would not have noticed the veil of blush on his cheeks. “If you have changed your mind, I will understand. The accident will stay an accident.” He seemed about to add something else, then shut his mouth. Staring down at him, waiting.

_Now. Come on. Now._

A racket to outmatch an artillery barrage erupted in Piett’s brain: blaring alarms, harsh words that needed be spoken, cold and clipped Core accents droning on about why the plan was doomed to end in a bloody failure.

_You won’t lose anything that was yours to begin with. He was drunk. You were drunk. Sheer lust. Easy to find a surrogate object. A lesson on always, always keeping it in your pants._

It was odd to watch his own right hand rise and unclasp the buttons of his tunic, then swat the flap open. Such easy gestures, such small noises.

The hold on his hips turned into circling motions, fingertips trailing up his sides, across his chest, then sliding down to unbuckle his belt. It dropped to the floor with a metallic thump, a weak distant relative of the death bells Piett had heard tolling years ago on a liberated planet. Maybe an omen, maybe a trick of exhaustion. Not what could restrain him from grabbing Veers’ collar and pulling him into a kiss.


	12. Chapter 12

Tongue in, tongue out, a peck at the upper lip, tongue in and out again, lower lip this time, repeat until you feel a tinge of copper. Piett tasted of red wine. The green tea had done little to mask it and it made Veers huff in disgust. To his own ears, however, it sounded like a grunt of pleasure.

The whole process tinted Piett’s pale face a bright shade of pink. He gave him a look that could have been called apologetic, had it made any sense. Then Veers registered a noise of unzipped trousers, and the touch of fingers over his mounting, warming erection through the pants. Now it made sense.

“You’re not wasting time, aren’t you?”

“The fleet values efficiency.”

The counter-punch died off in Veers’ throat, drowned into a hum as the touch rubbed him up and down the rod. The synth-cotton pants were supposed to be light and comfortable, but within a few strokes the fabric grew heavy and rough as bantha wool.

“Besides,” Piett’s voice fell to a murmur, “you should talk about not wasting time.”

“Is the bed that way?”

A knowing smirk. “After you.”

The instant he stepped ‘round the corner of the folding screen and cast eyes on the white-sheeted dockyard-sized thing, he ground to a halt.

“Yes, that was my first reaction, too.” Piett latched his arm onto his and led Veers to sit next to him—with a keen eye for fine distances, so that they were not so close as to elbow each other while taking their boots off. And close enough, at the end of the operation, for Piett to scoot over and straddle him.

His turn to kiss, at first shallow smacks along Veers’ jawline, then the general’s tunic flew open and was pulled to his elbows, fastening his arms behind his back. Veers shivered and hissed at the biting and sucking that ravaged his exposed neck. He tossed his head backwards to offer more skin. Piett went at it avidly. To use the cleanest word. The pressure made it difficult for Veers to breathe, and he could sense the blood vessels strain to pump under the other man’s lips. Farther away along his body, he became aware of hands caressing his biceps and gliding up his shoulders, feeling up every taut muscle before they plunged into his hair.

His head got so light it made him dizzy. The ceiling he was gazing up to through half-shut eyes was a steel grey maze of air ducts. It reminded him of where he was. What he was doing. _On a warship, Maximilian? Your commanding officer, of all people? Aren’t you asham—_

While a finger traced along his earlobe, a fine thread of Piett’s voice pierced straight through his brain, “Don’t die on me yet.”

Veers leaned forward to shut his trap by means of a kiss on the mouth, a noisy superficial snap, a warning shot. He wrung his arms free from the tunic sleeves, slipped one hand under Piett’s shirt and the other reached below to grip his arse.

“Firmus.”

“Hmm?”

“You really are on the scrawny side, did you know?” For emphasis, he ran his fingers along the other man’s ribs, and lingered along the jagged edge of a scratch.

“Yes, but _you_ did those.” A statement, not an overt accusation. That is, a veiled accusation. Veers was not in the mood for veils, in metaphorical and physical sense; when Piett said, “Arms up, please,” he sighed in relief as he let him pull his shirt off. His belt and tunic had already found their way to the floor, he hadn’t a clue when.

 _Shit, I’m not even drunk this time_.

Piett mumbled something in which he caught the words _damn uncomfortable_.

“What? Where we’re sitting now, or we have too many clothes on?”

“Both.”

Veers lifted him and hopped backwards to lie flat down over the silky bedsheet, with Piett on top of him. The half-healed wound under the bacta patch did not like it, the only part of his body that didn’t. To the ninth hell with it; the pain was dull, localised, bearable. “Help yourself.” He choked on a curse as Piett dragged himself to his knees, but it was just to whip off his tunic and then the shirt—

“Bloody hell.”

A purple line of bruises, some darker some lighter, crossed Piett’s chest from the base of his neck to the solar plexus, along the breastbone and ‘round his unengrossing excuses for pectorals.

“What?” He gazed down. “These? I must admit you make yourself difficult to forget. If that is your concern, no, they don’t hurt.” He ran his fingers on the trail of hickeys, pressing here and there to prove the bruises did not hurt. Veers worked his jaw. Damn it, damn it, damn it. There was no defensible reason why that gesture, that vulnerable skin, should arouse him, and yet the tightness in his crotch was growing, doubly constricted by clothes and the weight of the man on his lap. He wanted to thrash his legs, but willed himself to stay still. As still as shaking allowed.

“I’m sorry. I’m out of practice,” he said.

For the first time since they’d known each other, he heard Piett laugh. In character with the man, the laughter was soft-spoken and short. “I thought you were simply a bit of rough.”

“Put that in your exhaust port and blow—” Nails dug deep into his lats. He gasped, a lot louder than the minimal pain warranted.

“Save your breath, screamer.”

Groping, kneading palms and fingers slid over his abdomen, down into the open fly of his trousers, ripping hair strands off the linea alba, and up to his sternum. Shit, he knew damn well he wasn’t young anymore, no matter how many brawny lieutenants he knocked out on the boxing mat. Trembling under the inspecting touch, he promised anything to whatever deity might be listening, just to be twenty-six again. A pinch of forefinger and thumb ‘round both his nipples made him cry out and grip hard onto the mattress. The bedsheet had grown thorns, but stubbornness fit for trench warfare nailed him to his position.

Not that the effort went unappreciated: Piett was wheezing through his nose, and a strangled sigh escaped him as he untightened his jaw to lick his lips.

“Trying to get off cheap?” Veers kicked up his legs, pleased and a bit sorry when his knees struck Piett’s back and the admiral fell flat on him with a squeak. The unmistakable full-attention pressed against the crotch of his trousers, poking at Veers’ skin. He looped his arms around Piett, the right blocking his shoulders, the left sweeping down his backbone, down to a barrier of stiff fabric that would not give way…

“Max, wait—”

The cloth tore.

“Why did I even try?”

“Stop complaining! A few stitches and it’ll be as good as new.” It hardly mattered now that he had warm flesh to fondle, the ache of his own boner to bear, and a sailor panting on his neck to persuade to treat him to some squealing. Piett could call him a screamer all he wanted: quiet sex was best left to scared adolescents.

He thrust his left hand deeper, forcing trousers and pants down, running his fingertips to the other man’s bollocks and over the hot skin between them and the arsehole.

Without a sound, Piett clutched his shoulders. His short nails stabbed like akul teeth.

“Ow!” Veers blinked against the sweat on his brow. The sight that came into focus was Piett biting down on the sheet, cheeks red and hair sticking to wet temples.

Maybe the sober fuck had not been a clever move. There had to be a reason why Piett had never tried hitting on him until an awful lot of grog was in his bloodstream—and until he’d outranked the general. “Come on, you sorry git.” Veers’ right hand stroked the hard edges of his shoulder blades. “I know you’re nowhere as prissy as it’s common opinion aboard this tin can.” It trailed up his neck, making him hunch his shoulders. “So show me some dignity.” It gathered a fistful of hair and pulled gently, careful not to harm. Piett didn’t resist as his head was lifted off the mattress. He mouthed what Veers would’ve betted a grand was a curse, then gave vent to the lustiest moan the galaxy ever witnessed outside Zeltron Space.

Veers chuckled. “Some dignity, or lack thereof. Better the lack.” He drew his left hand across Piett’s side and sank it in the front of his pants. Well, well. The sailor trying to pass off as bashful was already harder and hotter than him, he’d felt it, but this... “Huh. Remarkable.”

Piett writhed. A resolute squeeze and he sobbed, his whole body shuddering to a halt, then a bit of stroking and he bucked, the strong arm around his frail shoulders pinning him into place.

“What were you trying to do?” Veers taunted. “Is that how the navy says its thanks for compliments?”

He was breathing hard through his mouth now, tickling Veers’ ear softly. “Not so fast,” he whispered.

“Fast how? Like this?”

“Bloody hell, y _es_.”

It didn’t take a decryption software to know what that ‘yes’ was for. Veers nuzzled his way to Piett’s mouth; a whimper welcomed his tongue, and when he pulled away to catch breath, it coalesced into, “Max, stop.”

“Stop what?”

The slap took him by surprise. Left him blinking, so light-headed that he feared he might faint.

Piett sucked in breath a couple times. “Do _you_ want to have a go at it tonight or not?” The prim Coruscanti accent was gone, replaced by a gruff Outer Rim twang.

 _What?_ , Veers meant to say, but an unintelligible squawk exited his throat. Piett shoved the limp hand out of his pants and sat up astride Veers in a brusque motion, knocking the wind out of his lungs and, for good measure, clamping a palm over his mouth.

“I hate being crude, so this warning’s happening once and applies for as long as I live: I have a hell of a day ahead tomorrow, and I am not adding a bleeding sore arse to the list of my miseries. If you tease me too much and make me come now, you can forget I’ll let you in for your turn later.” An accusing index finger replaced the stifling hand. “And another thing: I say stop, you stop. You won’t force yourself on me. Ever.”

“For the love of... Who did you take me for?”

“Someone who went for a stroll down a reactor core and has been AWOL ever since.”

Veers gaped at him. Then tried to laugh it off. “Good you didn’t get caught for that, right?”

“Since we are on the topic of getting caught and you’re not just a screamer but a chatterbox—”

“Language, sailor.” His hands snaked up Piett’s thighs, rubbed circles over his naked hips.

“Not. Now. General.” The glower, despite the arousal, signalled the admiral had resumed active service.

It wasn’t the first time Veers hesitated to obey an order. Like all those other times, he obeyed anyway. He retreated both hands, and with growing apprehension watched Piett slide off of him and tug his trousers up, tight as they must be on that erection. Not a whimper or a grimace escaped him, but the sight made Veers’ groin hurt in sympathy.

“Do you remember what happened last night, before you took me to your cabin?” asked Piett. If not his accent, his breathing was back to normal rate.

“Not much. The lift.” The memory was a blur, but Veers felt a spike of anger.

“You opened the wrong door. We walked in to one of my officers sleeping with a stormtrooper.”

“…Yes.”

“I gave the lad a scolding, but the result was counterproductive.”

If the trooper’s squad mates had ambushed the bastard in a camera-free corridor, dragged him into a storage room and beaten him to a pulp, Veers was not going to agree to a court-martial for them. Unless one was set for that officer first. But Piett seemed reluctant to go on, breaking eye contact and wetting his lips. _Counterproductive_ took a handful of more sinister meanings. “What did he do, Admiral?”

“He acquired tapes. He... he is blackmailing me.”

If Piett was expecting rage and a flurry of loud expletives, he didn’t get any. It was obvious, since none of this claptrap could be true. It couldn’t even be true they were discussing it half-naked in bed. It was not true, and it was not happening. Simple as that. Nothing of it. Veers dragged himself to sit up. “What tapes?”

“I told you about the secret CCTV feed. The techs told me they fixed it. I… trusted them to fix it.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

The room insisted on not dissolving upon awakening. Veers pinched his wound, it hurt. The bad dream was still here. And Piett was watching him with something of the fearful alertness he showed around Lord Vader. How flattering. It would have been nice to play a bit of game on that, but Veers was getting more and more out of the mood each passing second. “So, your sneaky lieutenant palmed the tapes and is threatening to send them to the high places, isn’t he?”

“Couldn’t be anything else.”

“Angling for your rank and station, I suppose?”

“Find me one junior officer who doesn’t dream of becoming admiral here. No matter how many end up flat on the floor with a crushed larynx.”

Considering that was how the current admiral had earned his rank, if this was a complaint on the perils of ambition it bloody reeked of hypocrisy. But that was a sermon for another day. “Well, I’d be sorry if you were gone so soon.” Veers met the glare with a defiant grin. “So what? I don’t plan on warming the bed for every admiral of the Lady Ex, especially your Lieutenant Whatshisname.”

“Ardan. Lieutenant Commander Ardan. At his sixth tour of duty. Little lustre, but he has connections.”

“Who doesn’t!”

“I, for example. You.”

“Isn’t Lord Vader a connection?”

“Max, take a moment and think again about what you just said. Do it.”

“I mean it.”

“If that is the case, congratulations on being less expendable than me. How does that feel?” Piett folded his arms over his knees.

Pouting wasn’t going to work, though. Not on the father of a stubborn boy with a temper. “Let’s stay on the main target. Who would this bastard show the tape to get you gunned down? Any idea?”

Of course he had. _Several_ ideas, with reasoning—gossip, if you will, but pertinent gossip—to back them. Veers’ nonchalance was spent up like fuel in an engine tank, as the list of familiar names from the Joint Chiefs office and the Core’s war industry magnates rolled on. The kind of folks Lord Vader would be happy to cleave at lightsabre-point, and quite angry if anyone in his sandbox fleet were to entangle him with: a hell of a detonation would result, the shockwave smashing more than one unlucky bugger to red paste. Starting from the hereby present admiral and general who had ignited the bomb. It was a small comfort the snitch would, in all likelihood, get caught in the blast as well. And this ruled out the opportunity of telling the commander-in-chief.

“Did you consider gathering proof he was abusing of his rank, and give him a taste of his own medicine?”

“Consider, yes.” Piett bent over the edge of the bed and gathered his shirt off the floor. Sure it was cold without clothes on, and yet, Veers felt a pang of disappointment as he put the shirt back on. “But he bested me at my own game. _His_ incriminating tapes were flushed out of the Lady’s memory banks. I went to check in Central AI myself.”

“What about the techs? Didn’t anyone see him? A droid we can get a recording from?”

“We _could_ round up some witnesses, given time and persuasive means.”

“But it wouldn’t be enough,” Veers finished the sentence.

“I’ve never been unhappier at having to agree with a dirt-pounder.” He meant all the unhappiness. Not even an attempt at a smirk. “At best, it demonstrates malicious intent. At worst, his defence attorney in a court-martial could harp on the lack of hard evidence Ardan ever slept with that trooper, and spin the whole thing around as a honest, concerned subordinate’s effort to denounce two superiors who behaved in a manner utterly unbecoming of their rank. Never mind that half the ship was getting pissed to celebrate the victory: you and I should have been bastions of temperance.” He shot a look at the refrigerator, no doubt still full of Ozzel’s personal booze stock.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Cold or not, sweat was pooling on Veers’ skin. He lay down with his back to the pillow and the padded headboard. “Care for the actual worst, Firmus? The judge and jury themselves upholding that defence thesis from the get-go. On cue of the Joint Chiefs.”

Piett drew a slow breath. “That was implied in my point. But since we’re discussing worst case scenarios…”

Veers folded his arms, glad he had some support behind him, steadying him. Thousands of naval officers in different degrees of perversion roaming the galaxy, and he had to pick the one with a knack for pessimism. Or realism, and they truly were neck-deep in xenoboric acid.

“Max, do you… do you remember what you told me last night?”

“I told you a lot of things. Be more specific.” He held his breath as Piett gingerly touched the bacta patch.

“It was giving you trouble. You said if I laid a finger on it,” what he was doing now, “you would lose what little self-control you had left.”

“I was drunk.”

“You treated me to a fine compliment. That I was clever enough to figure out what would happen if you—”

Veers sprang up to sit. A shooting pain made him gasp. “You... you know I meant nothing—”

“ _I_ know. But a jury who wishes to see the matter from a slanted angle would have it easy to slap a charge of rape on your colourful language and rough manners.”

Neck-deep in xenoboric acid. Searing his throat. Veers wished he could spit it all out in a deluge of the worst curses a galaxy at war had taught him, but sealant taped up his teeth.

The admiral had nerves made of stronger steel than his, and pressed on the damage assessment quiet and cool, “Even if we—if _you_ were acquitted, it would be expected we resign our commissions, to preserve the honour of the armed forces and draw the scandal away. Harsh peer pressure would provide the necessary enforcement.” A soulless smile. “Of course, you’re not one to be bullied into submission. Neither am I, I should hope.”

_But we all hit a low point._

“However, it won’t be a pleasant ordeal. Think of your division, General. Of your staff. Excellent, trustworthy soldiers, but mud-slinging can take as heavy a toll on people as combat stress. Believe me.”

“The Thunders won’t waver.” Best leave it at this, and don’t even think his men could do otherwise—the stupid officer’s mind trick to keep self-confidence when contact with the enemy sends plans tumbling down with a kick to the bum.

“All the more power to them,” Piett commented without much conviction.

“You can’t say the same of your subordinates.”

“Not at the moment.” He ran a hand down the nape of his head, smoothing the hair Veers had grabbed. “During my tenure as captain, I banked on every current of dislike for Ozzel I could stick my nose into. Nothing like a shared enmity to make allies and keep them banded together. Now that I have stepped into the old man’s shoes…” He flopped to lie on his back next to Veers. “Ardan is forcing my hand to his blatant advantage, and it’s safe to assume the lad will gleefully hammer the wedge deeper and deeper. The predictable outcome will be an officer corps of split loyalties. Guaranteed to end in a major foul-up at the worst moment, for which I will take the brunt of the blame.”

“Thought you had a reputation for choke-proof deflector shields.”

He knitted his brows, and Veers shrugged. “The worst I’ve heard Ozzel call you was ‘gutless’. I bet in his mind he amended that to ‘clever little schemer’, after you dealt on him and Lord Vader that nifty hand with the probe droid on Hoth.”

“I happened to have an opinion that turned out to be correct.” A frost coating in his tone nullified the false modesty.

“For the record, I wasn’t calling you a schemer.”

“Do you think I would’ve made it so far if I weren’t? Do you really think that?”

“You’re a capable officer. I heard you cleaned up your home sector—”

“Spare me the purity fantasies. I am very good at my job, but it’s a damn big fleet out there. If every officer who’s good at their job were to have the career they deserve, on the basis of service merit alone, there would be more admirals than hydrogen atoms in the universe.”

Veers begged to differ so damn much. But he refrained from even rolling his eyes.

“Rising through acts of valour alone is the exception that confirms the rule, not the contrary.” The admiral didn’t bother to put a mask over the bitterness.

Anger scorched Veers inwardly like when he’d drank the tea too hot. Did the navy toff have any idea how many missions it had taken his fresh-out-of-academy ensign self to be forged and hammered into a general? Bravery and daring on the verge of suicide. Insomniac nights afterwards, to complete reports and struggle not to cry at the thought of Eliana and the baby, and what they would be doing if bravery came to cost him his skin. “I won’t have any of that underprivileged Rimworlder whining, Firmus. Stay on the damned target. What do we do with Ardan? Shall I give him a warning talk?”

“No.”

Veers rolled onto his side—the wound side. It didn’t hurt much but still did. Ten to one the sly bastard had lain down to Veers’ right foreseeing he’d shift like this, sooner or later. He pinched Piett’s chin, and had the pleasure of making him wince. “Why not? Sometimes, what works best to break a clever one is the application of brute strength.”

“Are you implying this is what you have done to me?” Before Veers could load and fire a reply, he tilted his head and bit the nearest finger off. “I know where you get your delusions,” Piett purred. “Someday I should fuck them out of you .”

Veers swallowed. A heat wave rippled across his groin, stoking the boner just now that his pants were fitting him again.

“Back to current business,” said the admiral, “you might want to consider you didn’t even pause to ask me whether I had the CCTV disabled in this room. And made sure it _was_ disabled, this time.”

Veers bit the inside of his cheek. Words were laborious, laden with _I_ _am not afraid, I won’t show I am afraid_. “Maybe, then, I am really, truly stupid. Or maybe, Admiral, I trusted you not to fuck the same shit up twice. Maybe I trust you and respect your intelligence.”

“General, I’m not demanding you become my assassin droid. This was a purely informative meeting.”

Veers glanced down at his bare chest and his unzipped trousers. _Informative meeting_. Sure. Next time, he was going to rub it in Piett’s face so hard his nose would bleed. If there was going to be a next time.

“It was fair that you knew,” Piett went on, “and that you knew I am taking full responsibility for dragging you into this folly. I will clean up after my own mess, Max. You have my word.”

“And I am to stand back and watch? That’s not my style.”

“Letting you get away with murdering one of my bridge officers in cold blood is not _my_ style.”

“I didn’t mean... Blast it. I refuse to argue.”

“Good boy.”

“But what if he tries to blackmail me like he’s doing you?”

“Play dumb, and let me know at once.”

“In order to play dumb well, though, I would have to punch him. That’s what I’d do if I were unaware— _oof_.”

For a man that petite, Piett knew how to plant a sharp kick to the shins.

“Alright! I’ll behave myself!” He gave him a dry smile. “Since you’re asking so nicely.”

“No. Since the jogan on this cake is, COMPNOR might be involved.”

With a groan, Veers fell down on his back. “Throw in a Rebel spy for completion’s sake...”

“A mere lieutenant commander would never have clearance to tamper with a security feed he’s not even supposed to know it exists. I have evidence those data were accessed today through Lieutenant Kijé’s credentials.”

“...Who.”

“The Press Corps liaison, doubling as political observation officer. Universally mistrusted, but has the good grace of keeping to herself. I doubt you’re familiar—”

“I’ve been running into Miss Propaganda the whole day! Shit, I should have known there was a reason.”

“Explain.”

He did. The main difference with a proper after-action report was the amount of expletives.

“I’ll check the medbay logs later,” Piett said, “but could you tell me what time was it when you met her there?”

“Around 14:00. More or less. I didn’t notice—” He didn’t catch his breath in time, and doubled over in an undignified sneezing fit. Something flopped onto his lap. His shirt.

“Not that I wasn’t enjoying the view.” Piett bent further over the edge of the bed and fished the general’s tunic, that joined the shirt. “But I could never forgive myself if, on top of it all, I caused you to catch a cold.”

So it was over. What a waste of sleeping hours. Veers smothered the angry thought in the motion of putting the shirt on. _Enjoying the view_. Well, maybe that was worth the trouble. A small part of the trouble. “Firmus, I—”

“And that stormtrooper in the medbay, do you know who that was?”

“No idea. Forgot to ask her ID number.”

“Her?”

“Yes, it was a woman. Why?”

Piett stared pensively at the floor for a few seconds, scratching his belly. Too high and mighty, Veers thought, for scratching his bollocks like any normal man.

“Just a theory.” An adult rancor hiding in his stomach chose that moment to let out a roar. He crossed his arms over the offending body part, and had a minimal hesitation in turning to Veers. “Sorry. I will ask Major Sauris some questions as soon as—”

“Firmus, you didn’t have dinner.”

“I had no time. I meant to get something after... after talking to you.”

“And I bet you were too busy for lunch as well.”

“Are we really having this conversation?” He looked him in the eyes, immediately averted his gaze. “Some ration bars. Several cups of caf.”

“Piss-poor substitutes for solid food. Where’s the comm station?”

“Entrance, to the left.”

Ignoring the admiral’s puzzled look although a tiny bit of his brain pointed and laughed at it, Veers got to his feet. He pulled his tunic on as he went to find the console, and keyed in a room service order from the senior officers’ galley. The next stop was the refrigerator.

Leaning on the folding screen, Piett watched his every move. “I thought you wanted to stay clean.”

The bottles, five in total, formed a tidy line on the floor. “Is any of these decent?”

“No. Even the Naboo one is as good as antifreeze.”

“No remorse, then.” Veers scooped up all the bottles in his arms.

“Remorse for what...?”

One after one they clattered down the garbage chute. The sabacc face Piett had kept on through discussing blackmail and court-martial melted into horror with tremulous lips.

“I don’t care how stressed you are, I don’t care if binge drinking is the custom of the navy.” On his way to collect belt and boots, Veers halted to grip his shoulder. “You’re not downing a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. Is that understood?”

“I wasn’t... Oh, fine. Understood. You don’t need to sprain my shoulder joint to get your point across.”

Veers pretended to believe in that peace treaty, nodded, and passed to the next theatre of war: the eternal struggle between an officer and his boots. The right leg was an easy victory, the left less so, and in that meantime Piett asked, “Did you just order food from the mess hall?”

“Mineral water.”

A glare.

“And double portion of everything that was one the menu tonight.”

“You’re joking.”

“Just wrap up the leftovers and put them in the refrigerator. I’ve freed a lot of room in there.”

“How kind of you.” His voice would have frozen stuff better than any fridge. But it warmed up again quickly. “Are you keeping me company?”

“I’d like to, but I have already dined. And still have work to do.” Veers took his gloves from the table, slipped them on, smoothed out the cap and...

“If you need a comb, General, the ‘fresher is that way.” The amusement was impossible to miss. If it had not been there, Veers would have accepted the offer.

Instead, he shoved the cap atop the tangle of hair, pulling it low on his nape to conceal the messiest area. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Drop me a line when you have a minute.”

“I was thinking, actually—we shouldn’t fraternise too much in public. For the time being.”

“But it would raise more suspicions if we were blatant in trying to avoid each other. What are you going to suggest, that we cancel every staff meeting when we’re supposed to be both present?” No more staff meetings for a few weeks didn’t ring bad, to be much more honest than it was polite in the presence of an admiral.

“That’s true, but...” Piett glanced over his shoulder, at the bed behind him. “Anything further than a work relationship will be out of the question.”

“Says the one who wanted me to stay for dinner and forgot about our little blackmail problem the instant he kissed me. Chastity isn’t retroactive, you know?”

The scowl and cold eyes Piett regarded Veers with didn’t belong in a bedroom.

“And I already regret speaking.” Veers sighed, feeling the weight of the day in his bones all of a sudden. If he had spent his reserve of strength on finishing that shag, a hangar bay crane would have been the only way to haul him out of bed. “I’ll do as you wish, Admiral. Discretion first.” He bowed. “Goodnight, sir.”

“To you, General.”

The general in question had seen that look on him before. At staff meetings. When Ozzel did his worst. The comparison made Veers bristle; if the admiral cared to read his displeasure, he very well could from the stomping of his feet as he marched out of the cabin.

He still did his best to avoid stepping into the corridor cameras’ field of vision. At least until he had to make way for a procession of carrier droids, rolling forth five trolleys stacked full with mess hall rations, heading towards the admiral’s quarters.


	13. Chapter 13

Lieutenant Kijé’s day didn’t start rolling downhill until mid-morning, when she rocked back on the chair, stretched her arms after a muscle-numbingly long spell of typing, and asked Bethan to order a bag of chips and a meiloorun juice from the galley delivery service.

 _“My apologies, ma’am,”_ replied the computer. “ _Your request is invalid and has been denied_.”

“You would think that not having to deal with an actual bartender made things simpler,” mumbled Kijé.

 _“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I was not programmed to ‘deal with an actual bartender’_.”

“But Sixtee is.” And now of all times, Sixtee wasn’t back from repair yet. Kijé shoved the thought aside, and along with it the thought that Chenda had not kept her word, and the thought she, Kijé, had been a gullible idiot again to expect anything better—quite a bit of heavy shoving, all in all; it left her sighing in fatigue. “Try that again.”

Same answer. Again. And a third time.

“Okay, this is getting stupid. Is the admiral one of those sticklers for protein slurry and went on a crusade against junk food?”

Bethan remained silent for a few seconds. “ _According to the latest fleet bulletins and orders issued to the ship’s galleys, Admiral Piett made no alterations to the current state of the culinary services._ ”

“Not even to deliberately starve me, the obnoxious underling of the thought police?”

Kijé could hear the computer’s components whirr in thought. “ _There is no such order issued, ma’am. Furthermore, such an act would be a court-martial offense, according to the Imperial Military Penal Code, articles—_ ”

“I kid, I kid.” Kijé put a hand in front of her mouth and coughed. Even with no one but Bethan to speak with, her throat had gone dry amazingly fast. It must be the recycled air. No person who’d grown up on Naboo, ten minutes’ walk from the Northern Ocean shore, could ever get fully used to the recycled air on a spaceship. “Why was my request denied?”

“ _The cost of the requested item, inclusive of VAT and room delivery, could not be detracted from your personal account, because the deposit in your account was found insufficient. Therefore, the transaction was automatically cancelled_.”

“Insufficient to buy a bag of chips? Now you’re kidding.”

“ _I am not programmed to ‘kid’, ma’am. Would you find it helpful if I lowered my Humour and Irony personality subroutines?_ ”

“Show... show me my account.”

The half-quarter-written report on the screen disappeared, replaced by a few fast-flipping windows as Bethan accessed Kijé’s personal file. At last the Account and Movements page settled on the screen.

 _Current deposit: 2.99 Imperial Galactic Credits_.

Kijé’s jaw dropped. Two hundred ninenty-nine, maybe? No, two-decimal-ninety-nine. She read it again, numeral by numeral, her forefinger tracing along on the screen. Two-decimal-ninety-nine.

Her last deposited paycheck had been higher than two hundred ninety-nine credits, anyway. She had been checking. Sure. Not as often as her mother had always insisted she did, alright. But everything had been fine last time, four weeks ago: one thousand six hundred credits. To congratulate herself on overcoming the fear of checking her bank account, she had ordered honey-flavoured Alderaanian beer as an extra to her dinner.

“This can’t be. It... it can’t be!”

“ _I_ _detected no system malfunction, ma’am_.”

Kijé slammed her hands on the console. “Yes, and a dianoga ate the rest of my money!” The shrill notes of incipient crying already cracked through her voice. She attempted a breathing control exercise, and ended up hyperventilating. Bethan offered a suggestion she snapped ‘no!’ to, without hearing it.

 _Idiot. This is what you get for being shoddy in everything you do_. It came in the voices of Chief Kastle, of three different professors from Theed who had never given her a scolding but should and would have if they’d known her better, of her mother and her stepmother. _Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot_.

She jumped to her feet, stopped in mid-stride halfway to the ‘fresher, told herself aloud, “An officer doesn’t surrender!”, and all but threw herself back to the computer console. “Okay, Bethan. Show me the list of transactions since—oh.” It was already there on screen. The list of movements covered the last two months.

“ _I thought this could be helpful, ma’am_.”

So much for Human intelligence being supposed to always trump AI. Granted, in the medical science’s opinion Kijé qualified as a subpar sample of Human intelligence, hardly representative of the best the species had to offer. But still.

“Did you notice any anomaly?” She should have scrolled down and seen for herself. Idiot, once more.

“ _The record shows a transfer of one thousand five hundred Imperial Galactic Credits to an anonymous account—_ ”

“What in the nine hells...”

“ _...that took place yesterday at 14:25 Imperial Standard Time, ma’am. This event significantly breaks the pattern of banking operations you usually perform_.”

“Sure it does! When would I have even had the time to make a bank transfer yesterday?” Her voice rose, one word after the other, and so did a hot wave of rage in her chest. Well, that, or she was about to throw up. “14:25, you said? I was in the medbay!”

Bethan was silent for a moment. Stars, had she just scared a computer into silence?

“ _The medical service logs confirm you were hospitalised in medical bay NE-122. Admission hour is recorded at 13:34 Imperial Standard Time, followed by discharge at 14:31_.”

Thinking again, this cleared nothing. There were computer terminals in the medbays, too. All she would have had to do to access her personal accounts was stick her code cylinder into a terminal, and…

Her hand flew to the cylinder in the pocket of her jacket. Then to the spot where her skull had took the knock. Between the painkiller and some anti-inflammatory medication, and the extra work to make up for the time she’d lost, the swelling had disappeared in a few hours; she hadn’t noticed the painful lump on her head was gone until she had flung herself to bed, a long time after the start of night cycle.

“Bethan.”

“ _Yes, ma’am?_ ”

“Can you run an analysis on my code cylinder and find out if it’s been tampered with?”

It turned out Bethan could. After several agonising minutes, that left Kijé’s back and joints stiff from sitting too rigid, and her jaws throbbing with pain from gritting her teeth for so long, it also turned out the thing had been sliced. It had been a thorough, hi-tech job, Bethan informed her, which would have escaped even the AI’s notice had she not received a massive batch of software updates just overnight. Which suggested the slicer, too, was well-versed with up-to-date Imperial security protocols.

Kijé unstuck the cylinder from the terminal she’d plugged it in. Her hand wasn’t shaking, thankfully, but her palms were cold and sticky with sweat.

She closed her eyes an counted from one to ten, in Basic and in Kaadarese and in Old Theedian and in Basic again, taking deep breaths in-between.

Nothing of the mess was gone when she reopened her eyes, and her mind did not feel cleared in the least. Her heartrate, however, felt okay. Better not check to make sure; that’s the easiest way to discover something scary. “It’s… odd, you know? I suppose this isn’t the kind of damage that happens if the components take a bump on the floor.”

“ _As my analysis explained, ma’am, evidence of splicing—_ ”

“Yes, I get it.” She rolled the slick metal cylinder in her hands; the surface wasn’t even dented. Factories put them through crash tests, sure. And there were still old folks, back on Naboo, who claimed Imperial technology was low-quality corner-cutting armoured plastic with sub-zero aesthetic sense... Well, the latter part was true, but the cylinder had not broken in the fall. That was a fact.

_I found this in the corridor where you fell, ma’am._

Her heart jumped to clog her throat.

_Just doing my duty, ma’am._

Duty, or pangs of guilt?

“Bethan, what’s the average pay of a stormtrooper—a Trooper First Class—aboard the _Executor_?”

Per month, it was a lot less than the amount that had vaporised from Kijé’s account. But she listened with only one ear, hotly pursuing the trail of her thoughts, while Bethan offered data and calculations. If Trooper Soult was the thief, why should she have returned the stolen goods? She must have known the tampering would not have gone unnoticed. Unless—unless she knew how scatterbrained Kijé was. That humiliating moment when they had exited the medbay was a fine indication. She could have known Kijé wouldn’t be checking and thus wouldn’t notice the theft for a while…

“No, no, no!” Kijé went to pace a few laps at the centre of the room. As usual, she had not taken the trouble to put her boots on (Starfleet protocols or not, she had nowhere else to stay but this room), and the durasteel floor was stinging cold despite the real-wool socks. Doing something entirely physical, just anything, used to be a handy calming trick when she thought too many bad things at once; however, one thing was a walk or a set of push-ups on a sunny terrace back home, or in a park lane in Theed. Quite another on a Super Star Destroyer. The ship itself was making it clear she didn’t appreciate her presence…

She shook her head. “Focus, dammit.”

“ _Please specify what I must focus on, ma’am_.”

“Won’t you ever clam up? I wasn’t talking to you!”

Mean lashing out. Even for the standards of conversation with an AI. But Bethan was a computer, and could live without apologies. Unlike Sixtee, whose programmed personality was rather fussier and had evolved to a point where the droid had added a moping subroutine to it— _focus on the moment, focus on the moment_. Kijé stared down again at the cylinder in her hands.

It could not have been Chenda. It made no sense. None at all. Perhaps she had found the cylinder _after_ the real thief had spliced into it, and was none the wiser about the whole matter. But why would the thief not destroy it, or make it disappear, right away and without the hassle to take it back to where it had dropped…?

She touched the back of her head. The accident was a bit of a blur—the door sliding open, the screech of her boots on the floor, the empty corridor. Then a sharp pain, and her vision blacking out. How odd, to think about it now with a cool—well, a _slightly cooler_ mind: she didn’t remember tripping and falling. That used to be the part that frightened her the most, when she pictured the speeder accident that had killed her father; the inertial lurch, the instant of absolute terror before the pain struck. No way in the nine hells she would have forgotten falling.

“Someone did it on purpose.”

“ _Is this statement intended for me, ma’am?_ ”

“No, Bethan. I may trip on your power cords from time to time, but I doubt you could beat me senseless.” _Though I’d deserve it_. “Who… who is the responsible officer to contact when thefts of this magnitude occur?”

A few seconds of pensive whirring. “ _Taking into account the splicing technology employed and the clearance level accessed, my calculations suggest Captain Ronnadam, ISB-979_.”

Kijé imagined the ISB officer behind his desk, and TFC Soult sitting in front of him, confronting the man’s unsettling glare, and his agency’s even more unsettling assortment of ways to get sentients talking, with the dogged obtuseness that was the trademark of her corps. It was not going to be an easy interrogation, for either of them. A shiver ran down Kijé’s spine. “No. No way. Not so soon.”

Speaking of soon, the timer that ticked on one of Bethan’s secondary monitors started ringing. The first officially overdue report of the day. Kijé choked back a curse and flung herself towards the chair, but froze with her fingers already crumpled over the keyboard.

“Bethan.”

Long seconds passed.

“ _I am awaiting your input, ma’am_.” Even AIs lose patience. What a thrilling discovery.

Five. Four. Deep breath in. Three. Two. One. Out. “Show me the company officer of Trooper First Class Soult.”

A roundel appeared spinning on the main screen, over the half-done work.

A Press Corps officer’s wage was Imperial public money, after all; maybe if she did send a message to Chief Kastle, informing him of the theft and putting it into these terms, he wouldn’t be too mad…

 _Search complete_.

The officer in the profile record—one Captain Atri Visdei—was a woman in her late twenties, with a silver star under her identification number; they must have awarded several Medals of Honour after yesterday’s battle... no, the record said this one was for ‘outstanding tactical prowess and heroic behaviour during the pacification of Khonji Seven’. Whatever the pacification of Khonji Seven was. Okay then. A tough girl. Guaranteed not to take kindly to insinuations against her lads’ warrior honour. As if plundering and pilfering were any novelty in the history of galactic warfare.

Kijé’s stomach grumbled. Shame for those chips, really. Unless she was developing a stress-induced gastritis, to add insult to injury.

“Comm her.”

Not a moment too soon after speaking, at the sight of the open report file still on the screen, the thought struck her like an asteroid collision: she should have taken a few minutes to type down an introduction, some lines to rehearse before the conversation started.

“Visdei speaking,” barked a stranger voice over the comm.

Well, double dammit. Kijé cleared her throat, thankful the call was audio only so the captain wouldn’t see her quiver. “Yes, good day, Captain…”

Three minutes later, Captain Visdei was roaring oaths in an Outer Rim language Kijé neither could nor wished to identify. Four minutes later, “Hang on, Lieutenant. I’m comming the colonel.”


	14. Chapter 14

There was one cloud with a silver lining in this radiation storm: when Piett crawled out of bed and braved the ‘fresher mirror, the face that gazed timidly back was not as total a disaster as the sleepless, restless night had led him to fear. After a shave so thorough he cut his chin twice, a combing, and a change of every single piece of his uniform and underwear, he felt again like he suited his rank.

Minutes later on the way to the command bridge, he received a comm from one of the officers of the watch. After the least heartfelt ‘very well’ in galactic history was spoken, and the communication closed, he had to grit his teeth and lean against the nearest wall, reining in an urge to retch.

The first three bounty hunters had just exited hyperspace. Earlier than estimated time. Ideal time would have been _never_. If only.

Well, Death Squadron had business to attend to. And Lord Vader would not, under any means, stoop to receive the cutthroats one by one, at their convenience, as each latecomer showed up. Piett instructed the communication officers to order the bounty hunters to wait, at a fixed distance from the _Executor_ —whose guns were to be trained on their ships all the time—until the last one arrived.

“Shouldn’t we allow them to dock, sir?”

Who else it could be to question the order, if not Ardan. He stood on the walkway like he already owned the place, and the officer on duty in the crew pit glanced at him and at the admiral with a blank face that must be hiding a great deal of confusion.

Piett couldn’t bother with civility. Not after the night he’d had—and the night he and General Veers had _not_ had. “Your next shift is in fourteen hours, Lieutenant. What are you doing here?”

He blinked, the picture of innocence. “I figured I ought to familiarise myself with my upcoming station, sir.”

The lieutenant-commander on duty now knitted her brows.

 _Ozzel never had to deal with this. Why me?_ Giving Ardan a stern look that had no hope to get through the lad’s deflector shield, Piett grimly considered that his late superior, in his youth, might have been the type to behave like this. All the more reason not to let Ardan get away with it. “There are proper places to be when one’s off-duty, _Lieutenant_. You have ten seconds to leave this bridge before I send you to the detention block.”

“That is hardly a ‘proper place’, sir.”

“Seven seconds.”

He saluted stiffly and marched away fast. On his way in, Lieutenant Venka took a step astride to bump against him. Piett couldn’t see Ardan from where he was, but he saw Venka halt and stare at him.

The whole exchange had been so ridiculous Piett wondered, for a moment of desperate hope, if it could be all a dream. Now he would wake up in his bed, with a handsome general at his side—

“Admiral!” called a communication officer. “One of the bounty hunters’ ships is hailing us.”

Piett strode to the console, looked at the tracking data on the screen— _hailing my arse, this bastard is flying into the damned bridge_ —and slammed the comm on before the officer could so much as move her hand. “Ship _Rosnante_ , this is the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_. You are departing from your allotted coordinates. In case your sensors didn’t catch that, we have you targeted.” He finished a little slower, dripping menace, “Turn around. At once.”

The scumbag at the helm of the _Rosnante_ activated their own comm, in a flicker of static that quickly cleared up into a string of muttered curses.

“For your information, I understand Huttese,” said Piett.

The bounty hunter fell silent.

He had no idea whether the furtive look the comm officer was giving him was due to genuine fear, or restrained loathing at the fact that knowledge of Huttese screamed ‘lowly Outer Rim upbringing’ from a hundred kilometres away.

“Listen up, Imp boy,” a catty, heavily accented feminine voice barked through the comm, “I dropped a seven-digits prize to haul bag and baggage here all the way from Corellia. You _owe_ me a pit stop for the trouble—”

Piett turned to a gunnery officer. “Fire on the target.”

“Poodoo—did I just hear ‘fire’—?”

The _Rosnante_ winked out of the scanners.

“Open a channel to all the hunters.” Again Piett spoke into the comm, “This has been your first and last warning, gentlebeings. _Executor_ out.”

 _Steal my job at your own risk_. Just as his father used to yell at the folks of the Separatist party trying to set up shop in the same street where he ran his junk dealing business. Before the Separatist party became the majority and booted _him_ out of the planet, that is. On Halmad, it was the locals who yelled at the Free Axxilan expatriates they better not steal their jobs, for no deeper political reason than widespread poverty.

Self-preservation instinct kicked in to the rest of the scum’s brains—or AI matrixes—and for hours they stayed put, floating in space at the ordered distance. The Imperial ships still inside the asteroid field, with the _Avenger_ as spearhead, notified no sighting of the _Millennium Falcon_ , but also mercifully fewer losses to the fighter squadrons than in yesterday’s chase.

At last, ever too soon, the last one leapt out of hyperspace.

Piett leaned over to the comm officer. “Inform Lord Vader they’re all here and cleared to dock.” Then he noticed the officer’s expression. “Never mind. Patch me through, I’ll tell him myself.”

Judging by the background noises the comlink picked up, Lord Vader must be holed up in a fighter repairs bay. Not an infrequent occurrence, but at this time of the day cycle, in Piett’s experience it meant medium-level restlessness. The step below hacking down platoons of refitted battle droids at laser-sword point.

A detail of troopers would mount guard to each hunter’s ship, while another would follow the cutthroats in person, for every step they took aboard the _Executor_. One could never be too careful. To be entirely honest, there was the well-hidden hope at least one of them would lose their temper at the Imperial hospitality, and end up a blast-ridden corpse before making it to the turbolift.

The first one to show up on the command bridge, however, was Lord Vader himself. A couple minutes after receiving the comm. The entire starboard crew pit tensed up, and Piett could only pray he was masquerading it well enough as stand-on-attention politeness—which Vader ignored altogether, taking to pace up and down the walkway. The mechanically regulated breathing haunted every crewmember’s nightmares, but Piett could have recognised Vader’s footsteps, too, everywhere in the galaxy. Thumping with the weight of the armour, faster than you’d guess.

In a moment when the steps resonated at the opposite end of the walkway, Lieutenant Venka bent over to another officer’s ear, “He was in the prototype bay. It’s the only place close enough to get here so fast.”

“Then why doesn’t he have one grease stain on that cape?” the other lieutenant had the gall to ask. It was the chief flight officer on watch, and couldn’t be anyone else. Forever up to the standards of recklessness needed to fly a TIE.

“The thing’s black, how can you see a stain—“

“Silence over there.” They both glanced at the admiral, and clammed up.

The thumping on the walkway stopped. For a spine-chilling instant, the only noise to be heard across the bridge was the hiss of the respirator. Piett had to make an effort to look up. There Vader stood, the mask staring towards the entrance corridor.

A few seconds later came the clatter of boots, several pairs of them, and weapons.

A stormtrooper NCO walked up to Vader and stated the obvious, that the hunters were here. As if you couldn’t tell by the stink. Sewer and rotten meat, charred plasteel and engine lubricant. One sharp hint that Piett knew, from personal experience, to be Toydarian blood. The tech in the closest seat to the hunters wrinkled his nose. _I’m so sorry, Lady_. The admiral’s palm patted a durasteel wall protectively.

The scum lined up above the edge of the starboard pit. From right to left: Zuckuss, 4-LOM, Bossk, Boba Fett, IG-88, Dengar. Piett clenched his fists behind his back. Every one of them had a charge for manslaughter in the Axxila system. Or should have. Would, if his pirate-catcher younger self had had more men, more ships, more funding, more backing in the high places to carry out investigations and arrests off-system.

“All of you leave,” Vader commanded. Of course, regrettably, he meant the stormtroopers.

Vader’s presence served to silence whatever unsavoury comment the scum might’ve had a mind to make. “Thouar isn’t here,” he said. Hard to tell if bothered, annoyed, or interested at all.

Sefu Thouar. Zygerrian, fifteen years into the trade, started out with headhunting for fugitive slaves. Would not be missed.

“Was it your doing, Admiral?”

Piett knew the fleet commander’s inflections well enough to tell it carried no threat. No immediate threat, at least. Probably there was no reason to expect death by asphyxiation here and now. Hopefully. He squared his shoulders. “Yes, my lord. An unauthorised trespassing incident.”

Vader took another pair of strides towards the hunters. “So you are all aware that foolishness has no place here.”

They stiffened. A matter of millimetres, but they all did, organics and droids. Piett allowed himself the tiniest, vaguest smile. The instant Lord Vader brought about the _complete collaboration_ they would receive from Death Squadron, though, he tore his face away. Thank the stars, there always was something to read on the tactical screens over the bridge crewmembers’ shoulders…

No. No, there wasn’t. Nothing he did not know already. And no news from the _Avenger_ and the asteroid field. As much as he kept his cool, he felt the scum’s eyes on him, making the hair stand on the back of his neck. He tried to read what was on the monitor in front of him, but it registered as Aurebesh soup—irrelevant information, anyway, the only relevant one in the universe right now being the whereabouts of the _Millennium_ damned _Falcon_. “Bounty hunters,” he muttered to no one in particular, “we don’t need their scum.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Venka had the deference to mutter back.

“Those Rebels won’t escape us.” He sounded doubtless and resolute to the crew’s ears. To himself—he forbid himself to think about it. The telekinetic noose would decide. He wandered slowly down the row of consoles, until a garbled grunt made him look up.

The smell backhanded him. Something dead and decomposed. Then the talons came into focus. Reptilian feet, anchored at the edge of the platform. Upwards, the yellow combat suit, armour pieces, heavy blaster, and the Trandoshan’s mug glaring bare-fanged in defiance.

 _Say a word. Say one word, trash lizard. Just one_.

Bossk just exhaled. The back alleys on Axxila had treated Piett to much worse, even when they weren’t crime scenes, but he wasn’t used to it anymore. The whiff of dead meat forced him to steel himself, feet spread apart and stiff spine, not to stagger backwards.

“Sir.”

He took in a breathe with his mouth, and turned to Venka.

“We have a priority signal from the Star Destroyer _Avenger_.”

“Right.” He stomped past the lieutenant, preceding him to the communication officer’s post. The officer moved on her seat to let him read:

Avenger _to_ Executor _:_ Millennium Falcon _exited asteroid field. In range of our guns. Capture imminent._

Piett had to go over it twice to persuade himself he wasn’t hallucinating.

Then he sprinted to the steps that connected the crew pit with the walkway.

By everything that was fair and sacred in the galaxy, he was going to kiss Captain Needa next time he saw him—or, in the likely case the man was married to some well-to-do Coruscanti lady or gent, buy him drinks for the next few years.

Vader was saying something to Fett, pointing a finger to the Mandalorian’s face behind the battered helmet.

“Lord Vader!” Piett halted on the first step of the walkway, to be almost level with the supreme commander. “My lord, we have them.”

Vader’s head gave a sharp nod. He signalled the hunters away with a waving of his hand, and strode to loom over the hapless communication officer.

“Told ya it’d be a waste of time,” Piett overheard Dengar say, and Bossk click his tongue pensively in response. “Yeah, too bad for Sefu. Always told her that bad mouth was gonna get her in trouble.” Fett fell back with the rest of the group, glancing over his shoulder. One moment he was sure their gazes were meeting, Piett gave him the most arrogant smirk he could muster. He would have loved to further rub it in, but duty called.

“ _Avenger_ reports the _Millennium Falcon_ has not jumped into hyperspace yet, my lord, sir,” the comm officer was saying, her voice a bit faltering with nervousness in spite of the good news she was relating.

The source of the nervousness folded his arms. Piett stood quietly a few steps behind, waiting for either the good news to end all good news, or orders of any sort. He counted one minute. Two minutes. Three. Four. More. His palms started sweating in his gloves. _Needa, for the love of the fates, you’re too old and smart to foul this up. What are you doing?_

Lord Vader tilted his head towards him for a heart-stopping instant, as if the thought had been spoken aloud, then turned back to the comm officer. “Send a transmission to the _Avenger_. I want an update on the chase, now.”

“Yessir.”

More excruciating minutes slogged by. Piett had never been too sure it was an actual sensation or deep-rooted fear playing tricks on his brain, but he could feel the impatience build up around the towering dark figure, like the chill from an open refrigerator—one used to stash hazardous radioactive material.

The comm officer winced on her seat and said in a small voice, “Sir, _Avenger_ reports they... they lost the Rebel ship. Captain Needa says they moved to attack position, barely avoided collision with the Destroyer’s command bridge and—and they vanished. He suspects they used a cloaking device—”

“He must account for his ineptitude. Notify him.” Lord Vader was a walking, living, loudly breathing catalogue of rages, and this one fell in the icy, borderline mocking category. Not an excuse to relax at all, but Piett could make an educated guess Vader was not going to strangle the comm officer—or him—on the spot to vent. Unless he was angrier than the admiral credited him...

“Ah—yes, my lord. He... Captain Needa intends to explain the situation and deliver his apologies in person, sir.”

Vader started down the walkway. “Admiral.”

“Yes, my lord?” Piett sped up his gait to keep pace with the much taller man in the armour.

“Meet the captain of the _Avenger_ as soon as his shuttle docks, and take him to me.”

“Yes, sir.” A lesson. A warning. As if Piett hadn’t received plenty of both. Speaking of which, Fett was still where the rest of his ilk had left him, propped against a wall with his arms folded. He straightened up leisurely as Vader strode near.

“In the meantime,” the mechanical voice rumbled on, and Vader gestured towards the bounty hunter, “you will assist him as I ordered.”

“I—yes, my lord.” He fell behind to a stop, under the weight of what he had just spoken. Lord Vader exited the bridge without another word. Who knew, perhaps he was pleased that the stuffy little admiral here had not questioned his command. Ozzel would have. Piett muffled the voice in his mind that shouted the old git at least wasn’t this much of a coward; still, he couldn’t bring himself to look the bounty hunter in the helmet visor.

It was Fett who broke the silence, “I don’t need your help, Admiral.”

“Very well.” This time, Piett meant it.

“Once I find ‘em, I’ll send Lord Vader the coordinates. Tell him standard fees apply.” On his way out of the bridge—and of the Lady Ex tout court—he seemed to follow exactly on Lord Vader’s trails.

“Scum of the universe,” Piett said through gritted teeth. When he spun on his heels to get back on the walkway, the galaxy’s centre of gravity spun with him; the result was a mixture of nausea and throbbing pain in his forehead, weighing down on his eye sockets. If he wasn’t so weak as to faint yet, he only owed it to that berk of the land forces, plundering galley leftovers for him. He stopped the first junior officer that passed by, and ordered her to the closest dispenser to fetch him a two-shots extra dark with double sugar.

The ensign returned in a couple minutes, with a full steaming caf throwaway cup. Piett was three quarters into it, and Captain Needa’s shuttle was expected to dock in thirty minutes, when his comlink beeped; well, better now that caffeine and sugar had restored a fraction of his mental faculties. He unclipped the comlink from his belt, drank up the remaining caf, and switched on the device. “Piett.”

The other end of the comm made a throat-clearing noise. That was enough to recognise the speaker. “Admiral, I’m sorry to bother—”

“But you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t have a very good reason.” His gaze skated over the crew pits, in search of one particular smug face that had been gone since the morning rebuke. To be sure, with the pretext of throwing the empty mug into a nearby garbage chute, Piett moved to a niche on the viewport platform, overseeing the flight officer’s console; those people usually had too much chatter in their earphones, and too many fighter squadrons to give tactical support to on their screens, to care for anything that happened around them. “I’m listening,” he said into the comlink.

“Sir, your presence is required in my office. Now.”

This set a new record for most awkward and unsubtle offer of workplace sex Piett had ever received. “That’s a most unfortunate timing,” he answered tartly, “as my presence is also required on this bridge—”

A soft feminine voice crept into the comm, “General, really, this is not necessary, I never meant to be a disturbance...” to which Veers snapped, “Well, Kijé, _I_ never meant to let you anywhere near me again, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Caffeine notwithstanding, another wave of dizziness washed over Piett’s head. Could all the grog, the other night, have gotten Veers so sloshed he’d agreed to threesomes...? Then the name slapped him back into reality. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He switched off the comlink and checked the time: a bit of a credibility stretch, given that Needa’s shuttle would not land before twenty-five minutes, but it could work. Imperial navy personnel weren’t encouraged to call out _superior_ officers on minor anomalies. “Venka!”

“Sir?”

“I’m off to bay ninety-six. Take over command until I’m back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should anything happen, comm me.”

“Yes, sir.” A bit less enthusiastic than the previous.


	15. Chapter 15

For General Veers’ taste, the battle on Hoth had cost too many dead and wounded. The silver-lined cloud in the snowstorm was that all the best hand-to-hand fighters in Blizzard Force were alive, fit for service, and on time for the weekly sparring session. Within ten minutes after warm-up, five decorated soldiers half his age had limped off the mat with bloody noses, broken lips, trouble walking in a straight line.

“Next one!” He cracked his fists under the padded gloves. The next one in question, Sergeant Major Laval, exchanged a worried glance with the man beside her, then took damn long in strapping on the gloves and helmet.

That display of dread made Veers scoff. He was one hundred percent sure he wasn’t angry. A bit irritated over his career hanging on a thread because someone had forgotten a camera on, a bit sleep-deprived after rolling in his empty bed for hours—all things considered, he was holding on splendidly. At any rate, he did not _sound_ angry. No more than normal.

They fronted each other at the centre of the mat. The timer counted down the seconds to the beginning of the match. Laval was squirming and there was no way to mistake it for a warm-up exercise.

“Sergeant.”

“Yessir?”

“Fear is clutter in your mind. Clear it out.”

The timer rang. She was still staring up at him with wide, unsuspecting eyes.

 _All too easy_.

His right arm swung at her like a spring.

She yelped and dodged, throwing herself backwards in the nick of time. She didn’t land on her arse but it cost her a few staggering steps backwards, and he leapt forward to exploit that weakness, charging a spinning backfist. The punch hit thin air. He pulled back to a guard position, but she was too far away to attempt a counterattack, her stance mirroring his with shakier hands.

Veers let out a snarl. How could he have miscalculated the distance so badly?

Sergeant Laval said under her breath, “Oh, fuck.”

“What did I just tell you about fear, Sergeant?” He did not mean to yell it. But it had the darnedest stirring effect on his bottled up anger. Like a fiery piece of shrapnel stuck in the flesh.

Laval stammered something he paid no heed to. He was fast towards her, but she was faster in stumbling aside. “Mind that footing, damn you!” He made a sharp turn with his torso and his hips, and he knew the cross was within distance. His fist missed her head in the padded helmet by a few centimetres. But shit, it missed. He brought his rear foot forward, sweeping for her legs. She jumped over it. She fucking _jumped_. Well, he had an uppercut ready for when her feet touched the mat again.

Her frame, stocky and clad in the protective suite, vanished in a blink of his eyes. _Down_. His arm reacted on instinct, swerving the fist downwards.

It hit something this time, but a fierce pain in his right side overwhelmed all other sensations. The mat flew towards him, and he rolled over on his shoulder to cushion the fall. Instead of leaping to his feet, however, he struggled to raise one knee off the floor.

He clenched his teeth and dragged himself upright, as fast as he could. That is, pathetically slow. Plenty of time for Laval to deliver a well-deserved killing blow.

But she just gaped, several paces away, arms hanging limp. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t remember you were—”

“I had it coming. Exploiting a weak spot is a clever and legitimate move—though it may seem a bit distasteful.” The pain bled into his throat, made it sound like he’d had gravel for breakfast. He forced himself to stand ramrod-straight. Taking a step forward nearly brought him to his knees again.

Laval flinched. There was sweat on her brow and it clearly wasn’t because of the helmet.

“But,” Veers raised a finger between her eyes, “if you ever go easy on me again, or on an actual enemy, make sure you have your things packed for a transfer to Tatooine. Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

She didn’t see what hit her. The proverbial imbecile that examines the finger while a foot shoots up and hits the imbecile in the crotch. The padding absorbed much of the shock, and she didn’t have anything fragile dangling down there; yet, she collapsed to the floor. True, the kick had lifted her off the ground. But still. Veers shook his head in disgust. “Next one!”

The ‘next one’ was in plain service uniform with a captain’s rank badge and a grim expression that promised bad news. She stepped onto the mat and saluted.

“Captain Visdei, right? What’s the matter?”

“Sir, a stormtrooper in my company—” She peeked at Laval crawling up to her knees.

“Speak at liberty.”

Visdei drew a sharp breath and lowered her voice, “A stormtrooper in my company has been accused of theft.”

“And you came to me, following the popular belief that a general is a one-man court-martial?” Veers planted his fists on his hips and leaned a little towards the captain, who now must be noticing, in an animal corner of her mind, how taller and bigger than her he was. “Three words, Captain: chain of command. Please tell me you didn’t forget them.”

“I didn’t, sir. Colonel Laestri sent us here. He commed Major Tantor and Colonel Covell several times.”

Tantor and Covell, in their chiefs of general staff position, damn well knew he was available only for emergencies during sparring hours. But Laestri was a persistent bastard; if he had managed to break through Tantor’s endless patience and Covell’s endless foul temper, it might be time to consider him for a staff post, too. The general made a mental note of that. In the meantime, he growled at Visdei, “So you got here without authorisation? Neglecting your duties?”

She worked her jaw. “Sir, I’m aware of that. It was important.” Visdei shot a glance over her shoulder. Veers noticed a blot in that direction, half-hidden behind the soldiers in boxing gear: dark blue, a uniform of the Imperial Press Corps. Surmounted by a pasty face—too pasty, with no make-up—that hit his guts as hard as Sergeant Major Laval’s punch.

“Captain, you said ‘us’. Who did you mean is here beside you?”

She nodded gravely, without turning. “Lieutenant Kijé, sir. She reported a theft of one thousand five hundred credits, and indicated as prime suspect Trooper First Class Chenda Soult, TK-838.”

Kijé stood so stiff it hurt to watch her: legs locked, hands clasped behind her back, head down staring at the spit-polished surface of her boots. Despite the uniform, there was something very un-military about her; after all, even prison inmates have to wear uniforms.

“Sir, I’m no fool,” Visdei went on in a hush. “When people of her lot are involved, it’s better one has more rank leverage than a simple captain.” It must sound too risqué to her own ears, or the general had slanted her an odder glare than he’d imagined. “This is what Colonel Laestri told me. And he said, ‘at least these _paneroles_ are not the Inquisition’.”

“Do I even want to know what a pan... _thing_ is?”

“Blisterbugs, sir.”

“That wasn’t the question, Captain.”

While she stood struck, blinking and wondering whether this was the inglorious end of her career—this thought could flash very fast across the brain of an Imperial officer—, Veers pushed past her. The sacks of punch-fodder stepped aside to let him pass. “Dismissed, all of you!” He didn’t deign them with a glance as they scattered. Kijé winced at the bark of his voice, but didn’t look up.

Veers stopped in front of her and drew a deep breath. They were so close he smelled the laundry soap on her uniform. He watched her quake for a few seconds. “Get to my office, Lieutenant. And you too, Visdei. I’ll meet you there.” First off, though, he strode to the locker room, to discard the suit and change back into his uniform; there was no need to shower, but he took one all the same, out of spite more than out of hygienic concerns. The longer he kept Miss Propaganda waiting, the better. More time for him to build up an exterior of calm.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to sit down at his desk. Out of etiquette, and some animal fear of being attacked in a barely defensible position, neither Kijé nor Visdei took the free chairs.

“Now explain,” said Veers.

Kijé cast a look, immediately averted, at Visdei, who started, “This morning around ten thirty I received a comm from Lieutenant Kijé here. She said she had a suspicion that one of my soldiers had stolen her code cylinder—”

“But she returned it,” Kijé whispered.

“No whispering, Lieutenant,” the general called her out.

Her head snapped up, and she said aloud, “She returned it, sir.”

“Was that the stormtrooper who escorted you out of the medbay yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

A hint of a smile showed on Visdei’s face. Relief the parcel passed over to the blisterbug.

Kijé drew in a shaky breath, closed her eyes, and recited an account of the theft and the discovery as if she had the whole speech printed out on the back of her eyelids.

Veers listened pacing back and forth at the centre of the room—a habit he’d been training himself out of, but for lack of cigarettes to chain-smoke it was the best anti-stress available. Behind his back, his fists were clenched so tight he’d lost sensibility in his fingers by the time silence hung again over the office.

“Captain Visdei.”

A gulp. “Sir?”

“Why in blazes did it take you so long to get to me? I understand my staff officers made you go down the waiting line, but the theft was reported seven hours ago!”

She glanced at Kijé, whose cheeks were the same colour as military-issue cigarette ash. The lieutenant took the cue, “It was my fault, sir. I had an anxiety attack. Captain Visdei had to carry me to the medbay.”

“I thought she was having a stroke, sir. The medic gave her pills, but we had to wait until he said they were working.”

Veers shook his head and resumed the pacing. Faster this time. But several grim considerations, on how in the nine hells this war could ever be won with this kind of personnel, kept easily up with his pace. Poor Empire...! He spun on the balls of his feet, as quick as if to parry a blow. “Where is Soult now?”

“Target practice, sir. Shall I call her up?”

“Not now, Captain. You may return to your duties. I’ll let you know if I need your aid again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And not a word of this reaches Trooper Soult without my order. Is it clear?”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted, hesitated a fraction of second that in close combat would have cost her victory, then walked out of the room.

“Lieutenant?”

She batted her eyelashes.

“Take a seat, before you faint.”

“I... doubt that is a risk, General.” She pulled the chair a bit to the side and sagged on it. “Unfortunately.”

“In my experience, the soldier who has strength left to be sarcastic is a long way from breaking point.”

Kijé’s mouth hung open. He felt her gaze on him as he strolled around the desk and sat down. He tipped up his head and looked her dead in the eyes. That was enough to make her quail. He knew this effect he had on some—well, a lot—of beings, and cultivated it as part of a senior officer’s package. Still, the spinelessness here was astounding. “Do you know one Lieutenant Commander Ardan?”

Several seconds of silence. “Some of his... personal correspondence passed through my computer’s filter, sir. It’s standard procedure, approved by the Imperial Military Censorship Board—”

“That wasn’t the question.” He leaned forward a bit, making her pull further back on the chair. No cute feminine chassis could erase the visceral antipathy of a frontline soldier towards a censor.

“No. I mean... no, I’ve never met him personally. Why would you ask?” She slapped the side of her temple. “Oh, right. Why would you ask, _sir_?

“You both quite like to hang around Trooper First Class Soult.”

She jerked up her head. The points of her thin blond hair, cut in the shape of an infantry helmet, brushed her shoulders with a certain grace. He blocked off his mind any explanation why he noticed.

“I met her yesterday for the first time, sir!”

“And?”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then managed to unjam the blaster, “I can’t believe she meant any harm to me. I mean, why would she steal my code cylinder? Why take all that money from _me_? What have I done?”

“And why are there people in the galaxy who think the Republic was a fair and wonderful government, worth restoring?”

“Well, sir, that’s a problem of historical memory—”

“It was a rhetorical question, Lieutenant.”

The mix of sorry and scared gave way to the briefest frown.

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if your bank account were the issue.” Veers pointed a finger at the code cylinder on her tunic. “That thing gives clearance to access classified information. _That_ is the kind of theft I’m worried about.”

“How... how classified?”

“Aurek level.”

“Holy—!”

“And you are an easy prey, too.”

“I’m aware of it, sir,” Kijé mumbled, again the picture of helplessness.

“I doubt it. You would have resigned your post on the _Executor_ long ago if you were. Anyway, security breaches of this scale are better handled in high places.” Veers activated the comm on his desk and dialled for the admiral’s comlink. Kijé stared at his hand with nothing short of bleach-faced horror. Typical thought police. Torture, spying, and planet-wide genocide are a piece of cake, but threaten them with a stab in the back, _their_ back, and suddenly they’ll remember they have a humanity.

“Piett,” answered the other end of the comm.

He didn’t sound angry. Or anything but the usual tired. Yet, an absurd, unexplainable shiver ran down Veers’ spine. It must be the tension—no one can stay fully calm when the thought police is involved, not even a general. Nothing to do with how that same voice had panted and moaned in his ear, mere hours ago. Nothing at all. Veers cleared his throat. “Admiral, I’m sorry to bother—”

“But you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t have a very good reason,” Piett cut him off, then fell silent. Kijé gave Veers a puzzled look; he held up a palm to say wait. Indeed, he was about to lose his patience and roar _where the fuck are you_ into the comm, when the admiral spoke up again, “I’m listening.”

“Sir, your presence is required in my office. Now.” Better than begging by a very narrow margin.

The admiral was not impressed. “That’s a most unfortunate timing, as my presence is also required on this bridge—”

Kijé leaned over on the desk. “General, really, this is not necessary, I never meant to be a disturbance...”

“Well, Kijé, _I_ never meant to let you anywhere near me again, but beggars can’t be choosers.” He didn’t bother lowering his voice. Especially to spell out her name.

Without further delay Piett said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The comm clicked closed.

“Chin up, Lieutenant. He is more forgiving than Lord Vader, after all.”

A faint reddish hue coloured her cheeks, healthier than imminent-apoplexy ashen.

Veers reached down for the refrigerator, pulled out the water bottle and two glasses, and pushed a full one towards Kijé without a word. She squeaked a ‘thanks, sir’ and knocked back the cold water as if the glass contained spirit. Hadn’t it been for the risk of complications with whatever stuff the medic had fed her, Veers would have given her something alcoholic; pity not having even a canteen’s worth left of the killer brandy that kept his troops warm on Zaloriis.

“I hope you have time to spare, Lieutenant,” he said. “The admiral is a thorough one.”

“I had work to finish, sir. A big heap of it.” She waved a hand. “But we all do, and yours is more important than mine, so—did it seem like I’m trying to shirk duty?” While he decided whether she was bullshitting him or meant it, and which option was the most upsetting, she yammered on raising both hands, “That wasn’t what I meant, sir! I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, you may stop apologising now.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir.”

Veers pinched the bridge of his nose. If only she weren’t the thought police, if only she weren’t entrusted with high-security clearances, if only the past ten years had been a bad dream and, after counting backwards from five, he would wake up in his bed with Eliana at his side... Her, or someone else. A smart-mouthed admiral. He wasn’t too picky. Last night and the night before had taught him that much. “I liked you better in business mode, Lieutenant.”

Wide blue eyes blinked at him. “I don’t hear that often, sir.” She smiled and seemed to mean it. “Thank you.”

It took him one glare to wipe that smile off her face. In another time, for a girl in another uniform, he would have been sorry. There was paperwork by the stacks on his desk and he pretended he was lucid enough to read it, until the hiss of the door opening spared him further attempts at civility.

Kijé turned and made a start on her chair; there was a thump, she bit her lower lip. The desk didn’t even shake.

“At ease, Lieutenant, at ease,” said Piett, but his eyes were fixed on Veers.

He was already tugging the cuffs of his sleeves and brushing creases flat on his uniform, before his own brain gave him a slap: _he’s not here for an inspection, you idiot_. Then it dug out of its depth a seventeen-years-old himself, a few classmates of the same age, a cadets’ dorm storeroom, and a holovid where a military inspection consisted of two people in inaccurate uniforms dry-humping on the unrealistically empty bridge of a Star Destroyer.

“I know what you are thinking, General.”

A rush of blood warmed Veers’ cheeks.

“Coming in without knocking was impolite of me, but I’m in a hurry.”

 _Oh, fuck you_. Veers rose. “If you care to make yourself comfortable—”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.” And he was standing within an arm’s reach from Kijé, who glanced to and fro between the senior officers. The rancor and the anooba. Whose fangs would cut deeper?

Piett levelled a cordial, unreadable look upon her. “Our Press Corps representative, Lieutenant Kijé, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir. I... I believe someone stole my credentials, sir. General Veers said it could be a very serious thing.”

Shifting blame already? Veers clenched his fists.

“Rest assured this deplorable affair is not going to tarnish your state of service. As far as I know, you were a blameless victim.”

She stared at him as if he had grown a pair of lekku. Next moment though, her shoulders slumped and she visibly relaxed on the chair. Still, her recap of the theft copied the previous, word for word. Damn unnerving.

“Have you met this stormtrooper, TK-838 or Chenda Soult, again after yesterday afternoon?” asked Piett.

Kijé shook her head. The nine hells took her, the friendly-old-uncle tone worked so well she even drew in breath and asked a question back, “Does she have anything to do with that Lieutenant Commander Ardan the general mentioned?”

The one who glowered at Veers was not the friendly old uncle, but a quietly, viciously angry admiral. “Did he?”

“Yes, sir, he… did. And now that I think of it,” Kijé stared down, brows knitted, “two nights ago I saw her leave with an officer. Not one of the stormtrooper corps, I could tell by the uniform colour.” She eyed the computer terminal on the desk. “General, if I may for one moment…?”

“Please do,” Piett answered. Or ordered.

Undignified as it was, Veers felt glad the girl had distracted him and cooled off his rage. He gestured at her to swap seats, which she did quickly and with her eyes down. She typed her way through the bridge officers rosters, until a bland male mug appeared on the screen.

“Yes, it’s him!” said Kijé.

“When and where did you witness that?” asked Piett.

“A stormtroopers’ mess hall. They were celebrating the victory, and I was conducting interviews. It must have been twenty-one hours, more or less. My recorder has the exact timestamp.”

Since Piett was the only one who could see it, Veers rolled his eyes. _Another piece of sketchy evidence. Fantastic_.

“Admiral, may I…?”

“You may, Lieutenant.”

Well, what if the end of the sentence was, ‘may I report you and your whole crew to the Security Bureau?’

“I cannot believe a stormtrooper would have any reason to steal money from me, of all people. I mean, why taking the trouble, when she could have picked on the company funds?”

“No petty larceny of that sort has happened,” Veers cut in, crossing his arms, “since _I_ have been in command of this division.”

Kijé either didn’t hear him, or was too caught up to stop. “It’s all the more unexplainable in an officer who, as far as I remember, never had gambling issues or…” She shifted in her seat, studying the admiral’s reaction; true, the shrimp outranked everyone on this ship bar one, but it was disrespectful of her to fear the admiral and not the general. “…or ever found himself in financial dire straits.”

That wrenched a genuinely bitter smile out of Piett. “Indeed.”

“So, at this point what I’m afraid is happening…” Sideways glances at the rancor and the anooba. “Lieutenant Commander Ardan’s goal might have been to steal my clearances, for reasons I cannot imagine, and set up Chenda—Trooper Soult, as the culprit, with the money theft serving as decoy.”

“That’s a sensible theory.”

The Navy man had nerves of durasteel; how else could he keep that serious and convinced face, while Veers stepped backwards and bit the inside of his cheek to stanch a fit of laughter? In all frankness he wasn’t sure he would rather laugh or roar profanities, if he had the freedom to do any of the two.

“Do you really think so, Admiral?” asked Kijé. Just the way a kid three quarters of her age would present a scrawled drawing to a parent and fret over whether they like it, garish marker colours and stick figures.

“I see why COMPNOR chose you for a post on the _Executor_.” Piett let the compliment—pray it was fake—sink in. “Would you mind if I took your code cylinder for the time being?”

She gasped.

“You have nothing to worry about. I simply wish to have all evidence of splicing checked and collected.” Piett extended his hand, palm up.

As she passed him the cylinder, Kijé asked, “But I won’t even be able to open my cabin door without it, sir.”

“Is a general’s clearance high enough for that?”

Veers did a double take, but managed not to stumble backwards to the wall. Kijé said in the tone of perfect innocence, “Yes, it is, but what does it have to do with anything?” Then she stiffened, and turned towards him. In another moment, maybe, Veers would have appreciated that look of utter consternation.

“I’m sure,” Piett went on unperturbed, “General Veers can spare a few minutes of his time to accompany you to your quarters.” He had the gall to smirk. At Veers, not at Kijé. “I can’t think of a better living, walking, _fighting_ safeguard measure against attackers.”

The girl gave him a bit of frown again. Shit, she had been there to watch when Laval had knocked him out.

“But, Admiral,” Veers tried, “I am busy—”

“Punching up your brawniest troopers, yes.” Not even harsh. Just the same temperature as interstellar void. “I’m not disputing the importance of such a task for the army’s morale and your own image, but our only Press Corps officer is busier than you. So, you go.”

“I understand, sir.” _And don’t think I don’t know you’re still angry over last night, sailor_.

“Good.” Piett trotted out of the door, stealing a glance at the chrono on his wrist.

“I take it back,” said Veers.

“Sir?”

“He’s every bit as unforgiving as Lord Vader. In his own way.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir. Admiral Piett seemed very kind to me.”

“Let’s go.” Veers traversed the room, with Kijé scurrying behind him. En route he often distanced her, courtesy of longer legs with stronger muscles. Keeping apace with him was the lower-ranking officer’s job and hers alone. So he never slowed down.

On the final lift ride to the deck where she had her cabin, she wetted her lips and found the courage to speak again, “Sir, may I ask you something that’s… bugging me?”

Veers stood propped to the wall opposite the one she leaned to, breathing deep and slowly to ease the wound pain the walk had awakened. He nodded, regret at his assent already weighing in his stomach.

“It’s Chenda—Trooper Soult. If it turns out that officer was using her as strong arm, will she be punished the same way as him?”

“Why does that concern you?”

Kijé hunched her shoulders. “I don’t think she deserves it. She may not have had a choice.”

“She had it. She could have reported him to a superior officer any time. Maybe to you,” he smiled without meaning any humour, “instead of bashing your brains out. It would have been the right thing to do.” He took an extra pause before clearing it up, “Reporting Ardan, I mean.”

“It’s not always this simple, sir,” she whispered, her stare down at the floor.

Pent-up rage trumped pain. Veers stomped across the distance between them, chest puffed up, thirty centimetres of stature advantage over the tiny cowering critter in front of him. “Aren’t you a bit soft-hearted for the thought police?”

She kept her eyes fixed on the points of his boots. “I wouldn’t be so outspoken if it weren’t for the pills, I guess, sir. It is nothing to worry though—the effect will be gone in a few hours.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

She jerked up her head. The sudden ability to glare daggers must be another gift of the meds. “Fine, General, you win. I have never gotten anyone arrested.” Sharp accent, he couldn’t place it. Not as bad as Piett’s slip back into Outer Rim brogue. But sharp. “And I’m sorry if this comes off as a slap to hierarchy, but I fail to see why that diminishes my credibility as an officer. You despise me if I censor your mail,” she flapped her hand back and forth, “you despise me if I view Imperial justice with a shred of nuance, if I am a _thought policeman_ and if I am _too soft-hearted_ to be a thought policeman… Is there any way I can ever do one thing right? Just _one_?”

The lift doors slid open.

“Of course there is, kid. Go home and leave war to soldiers.” Veers stepped aside, let her dart first into the corridor, and kept a strolling wide space on her wake. This was a touch of breeze compared to the hurricane winds his son loved to unleash when throwing politicised temper tantrums; but if Veers knew one thing about bratty youths, it was that they hate to be watched as they cry.


	16. Chapter 16

The admiral was a fuckwit. A wimp and a fuckwit. An arrogant nobody, a wimp and a fuckwit. The sooner Ardan rid the _Executor_ of him, the better.

Outside the bridge, safely away from Piett’s sight, Ardan kicked a mouse droid out of his way, then headed for the nearest cantina; that took him fifteen minutes of travel, plenty of time to ponder whether he should stick to caf or kick-start the day with alcohol. He was tempted to order a shot of grog, classic navy recipe. But Chenda didn’t like smelling that stuff in his breath—her family had a history of addiction problems, he recalled her voice, mellow and soft after sex, lulling him into half-sleep.

So he settled for a glass of quint-berry juice, found an empty table with a pretty view on the blackness of space, unclipped the comlink from his belt and commed Chenda. He let it ping for a while before dropping the call. She must be busy drilling, or prepping weapons, or doing whatever her COs had dictated for the day. Far be it from a naval officer not to have empathy for busy. Ardan put down the comlink on the table, grabbed his glass and sat down, rocking the chair on the back legs. Next thing he had to make Piett do: alter the rosters so that Chenda’s off-duty hours matched his.

He tried again halfway through the drink, and again after downing the last drop and thumping the glass on the table.

His comlink came to life with a maximum-volume beep. He flinched on the chair like an idiot, cast an even more idiotic look around—as if other off-duty personnel and the bartender droid gave a shit about him—and finally answered, in a low voice cracked by trepidation, “Ardan.”

“Hiya, luv, all right?” The drawl was feminine, no doubt, but he blinked in surprise. Chenda, getting drunk? Without him? And so drunk as to talk slurred?

“Yes, I—I’m fine. You?”

“Neck-deep in shit, wankstain, all thanks to you.”

The realisation knocked the wind out of Ardan’s lungs. The AI technician. “You… How did you get my comm number?”

“Found it scribbled on the wall o’ your mother’s cock-alley.”

He cupped a hand over the comlink. “Not so loud! I’m in a public space.”

“The saddest caff this side o’ the Lady, table twenty-one, viewport window.”

Every single hair on the of Ardan’s neck stood. He glanced up and met the cold stare of a surveillance camera.

“Sulkin’ cos your stormie girl ain’t got time for you?”

“…You were monitoring my comm.”

Braying laughter. “Aye, keep dreamin’ the galaxy spins an’ wheels for your fair brown eyes only, luv!”

“What in blazes do you want?”

“When Cold-Sweat sends me to the brig, you gotta bail me out.”

“The… the admiral, you mean? Why the hell should he—”

“Stop askin’ so many questions. We ladies don’t like it.”

In another time, he would have found it side-splitting hilarious that this particular sample of womanhood called herself a lady. “But how—”

“You got leverage on Cold-Sweat, luv.” She chuckled. “Why bother gettin’ it if you don’t use it—Shit,” her voice dropped, “gotta go, someone’s comin’.”

Ardan switched off his comlink, and had a hard time resisting the urge to throw it to the floor and crush it underfoot. _This is only the beginning_. He didn’t need his training in tactical analysis to tell. But his brain prattled on like a computer: _Once the rumour that you have ‘leverage’ on the admiral spreads, they will ask you favours. Many of them. Some petty, some serious. Not a bad thing—clientele networks are not bad things. But…_

He scratched his chin, feeling up the spiky growth of stubble. _Some favours are embarrassing. Fetters. Burdens._

That technician must go off this ship before he made it to captain. Long before that time. One way or another.

He leapt to his feet, bashing a kneecap against the leg of the table; he meant to run for the exit, but a few tables in-between had grown populated—by navy officers no less, some of which were on first name basis with him.

Sobriety was not the place where he wished to be, after all; risks were too clearly visible. _Never launch an assault if you have less than a pint in your bloodstream_ , an infantry colonel—shipped out of Firro for hepatic cirrhosis and frag grenade wounds—had once told him. He went to the counter. “I’ll have a shot of grog, thanks.”

“Any preference for the rum, sir?” The ‘tender droid began reeling off labels and varieties. Some of them so expensive Ardan wondered why they all assumed his family was _that_ wealthy.

“Ithorian, thanks.”

The stuff was stronger than he remembered it; he waddled back to his quarters and collapsed face-down on his bunk. His roommate had slipped and fallen over a hangar railing during her last shift—been toasting to the victory with a mechanics crew; the broken bones would keep her hospitalised for a week or more, the drunkenness during service hours would get her transferred to a lesser ship long before the injuries healed.

He flaked out through the first wave of brain numbness, to awake more dazed than he was before.

Sitting up was not an easy feat with joints so stiff. His mouth tasted like his teeth had been coated in sugar and left to moulder. Yes, he definitely could use a kind and loving word right now. He groped for the comlink on his belt, once, twice. Over the crumpled coverlet, around and under the bunk.

“Fuck!” He slammed a fist on the edge of the bed. How could he be so stupid as to forget the comlink on the cantina table? He bolted out of the room, towards the turbolifts. The physical effort made him realise just how parched his throat was; the lift ride, despite the acceleration/deceleration dampeners doing their smooth job, stirred his stomach like a bottle of sparkling water. Ardan felt weak with hunger and, at the same time, on the verge of vomit.

He made it to the cantina alive, the nausea coalescing in a vice that clamped all sides of his skull. Table twenty-one by the viewport had become the colony of a pack of stormtrooper officers. He went to ask the ‘tender droid first, and the chrono on top of the menu display made him groan: his alcoholic nap had lasted over seven hours. His shift started in one.

“Pleased to see you again, Lieutenant Commander.” If anything, the noise had had the effect of drawing the droid’s attention. “You might have forgotten something since your last visit.”

“Ah, you have found my comlink?”

A white-gloved servo-hand whipped up a rug and swept the counter in front of Ardan. “It is part of our programming to safekeep the personal belongings our patrons lose when under the effect of inebriating substances. What may I serve you, sir?”

“Nothing now, thanks. Just give me back my comlink.”

“Lieutenant Venka retrieved it for you, sir.”

Ardan stood his ground without clinging for support onto the counter. But he felt his body sway. “Where… where is he?”

“I shouldn’t know, sir, I’m only a bartender.” The droid went silent and still, all six arms, for a couple seconds of whirring. Then it started moving again, as if the block had never happened. “Lieutenant Venka is presently located on the command bridge, sir.”

“Did you just ask Central AI?”

“That, sir, is not part of our programming. But, as Humans say, we pick up some tricks of the trade.” The droid turned to the caf machine, a slab of chromed metal the size of a TIE fighter control panel, with just as many buttons and indicators.

Making an on-the-run exit was a habit Ardan felt already eager to lose.

Before crossing the last tract of corridor to the bridge, he stopped, waited until his pulse had slowed to a softer rate than tachycardia, straightened up his collar and cap… He touched naught but his short mop of hair. Shit, where was the cap?

Entrenched devotion to military rules ( _an officer never goes hatless—up to six days in detention_ ) traded punches with the gut-churning fear that disgruntled bastard could have picked up Chenda’s call, if… no, _when_ she had called him back. For she must have, at some point.

The rattle-hiss, _that_ rattle-hiss, rose from down the corridor.

An ice-cold wave washed over him.

It approached fast, the noise growing sharper, the heavy boots stomping in a mismatched contrast with the clocklike evenness of the respirator. Eerie details that proved, if one needed proof of the obvious, Lord Vader was a machine.

Sheer force of habit, that universal glue taping armies together, spun Ardan on his heels and pulled his spine straight. His temples throbbed and it had nothing left to do with the hangover.

Lord Vader strode past him in a flutter of black cape. Ardan had no clue if he was seeing things, or there was the tiniest pitch in that droid head, a glint of optical sensors sizing him up—and deeming him not worth killing.

As Vader progressed towards the bridge, Ardan let out a careful, quiet breath of relief. But the supreme commander’s footsteps halted midway through the corridor, at a comm console facing a niche of computer terminals and monitoring station, whose technicians shuddered but did not glance over their shoulders.

Vader stood there, sticking his thumbs in his belt, and gazed at the corridor as if waiting for someone to catch up with his march.

Damned be Lieutenant Venka; Ardan was not crossing over to the bridge with that monster mounting guard. He skulked back down the corridor and broke into a run… no, not a run, a spirited quick step, after rounding the first corner that hid him from Vader’s sight.

His feet went wobbly, and opees swam in his stomach. He propped himself with one hand to the wall. _Chenda, I swear I’m never drinking again. I hope this makes you happy._

“If there is anything I can do for you,” shit, the admiral, just ‘round the corner—he lurched to a stop, “speak at liberty.”

Ardan counted two, no, three shadows cast on the floor.

“Nothing you should trouble yourself with, sir.” None of the _Executor_ crew that Ardan knew. Pure Core accent. “My testament has been duly probated ever since the Clone Wars.” Pure Core, a suffering strain, and a soft puffing; on a cigarette probably. Ardan could spot the curls of pale smoke.

Piett said, “Lorth, none of us in your situation could have done otherwise.”

Ardan frowned. Lorth Needa the captain of the _Avenger_? Clone Wars veteran, Coruscanti—it checked. But what was the man doing here? Last Ardan knew of his ship, she was out on the hunt, leaving no asteroid unturned.

“A sad truth, Admiral.”

A cigarette fag flew towards an open trash chute, missing it.

Someone sighed, boot soles screeched. Ardan flattened himself against the wall.

A female voice interjected, “Leave it to me, sir.” An officer in the black ensemble of the fighter corps entered his line of sight. She kneeled to pick up the fag and throw it in the chute, rose and disappeared into the blind spot again, showing no sign of having noticed Ardan’s presence. All he saw of her were the wide shoulders and the eyesore orange-red hair. Bucketheads—both stormtroopers and pilots—were allowed to indulge in non-reg hairdos, since the helmets would cover them up most of the time; once more he felt grateful Chenda had no such aesthetic fancies.

“Thanks, Lieutenant Andrashi.” Needa hesitated. “Don’t you dare reverting to your old breakneck flying habits the instant I hit the floor.”

A sniffle. “I couldn’t, sir. A Lambda’s nowhere as nimble as a TIE fighter, sir.”

“Go back to the _Avenger_. You don’t have to carry me on a return trip, after all.”

What in blazes did that mean? Had Piett called Needa here to fill in the _Executor’s_ vacant captaincy? Ardan’s chest swelled with rage.

Another sniffle. Heels clicked. Then a waning echo of footsteps.

“Better just me than all of them.” Needa sounded worn-out all of a sudden. You could almost see him sag. “Twenty-two years I’ve given to the navy. My first tour of duty, I was in the thick of the fighting at Coruscant. I told myself if that day didn’t kill me, the galaxy would have to try very hard the next time.” A snort. “I never imagined it would only take a smuggler…” Not an entirely failed attempt at bitter irony. But entirely out of character for someone who’s just become second-in-command of the flagship. _You sure pick your men poorly, Cold Sweat_.

“I hate to say it,” murmured the admiral, “but we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

The shadows shifted.

Damn, too late to run.

Ardan pulled himself on attention, just before the two senior officers rounded the corner. Piett led the way, and shot Ardan a glare that stoked a minuscule flame of the terror Lord Vader had sparked.

“His Lordship is waiting on the bridge, sir,” Ardan said to save face.

Needa followed half a pace behind Piett; his head hanging on his chest and his hands resting behind his back lent him the looks of a convict brought to the firing squad. He didn’t acknowledge the junior officer’s presence.

Ardan stalked at a distance. He wasn’t alone this time; a small crowd of techs, ensigns and navy troopers had gathered to watch. “Why’s Needa here?” he quietly asked a tech.

“Thought he had the _Falcon_. Made the mistake of selling the wampa skin before—”

Needa’s heels clicked on the floor. “My lord, I am here to present you my apologies for…”

Ardan’s breath hitched in sympathy.

But it was just a hesitation in the speech, not the execution yet. “…for failing to capture the Rebel ship.”

Vader remained motionless, the same thumbs-in-belt pose as when Ardan had legged it off. Only now the droid eyes were fixed on the _Avenger_ ’s captain. Who stared back. Rigid, very rigid, clenching his fists onto the hem of his tunic, but not trembling. Whereas Admiral Piett, the little coward, had pussyfooted to the monitoring station, pretending the techs there had anything of interest to show.

“The whole responsibility for this debacle rests on my shoulders. My… my crew is guiltless. I beg for all the blame, and whatever punishment you see fit, to fall upon me and me alone, sir.”

Then there was only Lord Vader’s rattle-hiss. The supreme commander and murder machine, and the brave officer wearing his honour like a second uniform, staring at each other. One breathing cycle passed. Two.

“He must be impressed,” Ardan whispered, not before inching a bit towards the wall.

“Who?”

“Lord Va—”

The supreme commander raised a hand. Barely a twitch of the gloved fingers.

Needa’s composure shattered in a garbled yelp. He tottered a step backwards, clawing at his collar with one hand, and fought to draw air in: a coughing, raucous fight, punctuated with bleats of pain.

“Mynock-brain, don’t struggle,” muttered the wampa skin tech. Noticing the eyes of his terrified coworker—and Ardan’s—on him, he explained, “It hurts a bit less if you don’t struggle.”

Better not to ask how he knew.

Needa fell to his knees. He glanced up at Vader, as if the execution had not been what he had expected, deep down inside. A glimmer of hope that showing courage and honour would, perhaps, soften the big man in black. Soften a battle droid, yeah, sure. A disgusting noise escaped him, not voice anymore, a squelch of snapped bones and crushed larynx. Then he rolled over on his back.

“Apology accepted,” Vader’s voice rumbled as he stepped around the corpse, “Captain Needa.” Sweet stars, was that supposed to be a joke? _Lord Vader_ being funny?

The raised hand again, the flick of fingers. Ardan cringed. _He smelled my fear._ The native bushwhackers on Firro could do it. Why not the monster here? _I’m toast_.

But the gesture just summoned two guards who had been shaking in their boots all along. They rushed to lift the corpse and haul it away. The wampa skin tech and the other spectators scattered at once.

Ardan stayed, but averted his gaze. He didn’t trust himself to stomach a hangover and a corpse at the same time.

Vader stepped over to the monitoring station; Piett leapt up from the computer screens, like a bird scared off its perching place by a speeder revving up.

But he played the part of the perfect admiral again, stand on attention, no nonsense, “Lord Vader, our ships have completed their scan of the area and found nothing. If the _Millennium Falcon_ went into lightspeed, it'll be on the other side of the galaxy by now.” And bad news.

“Alert all commands. Calculate every possible destination along their last know trajectory.”

“Yes, my lord. We’ll find them.”

“Don’t fail me again, _Admiral_.” Vader waved a finger at him, the instant he called Piett by his blatantly undeserved rank.

Ardan hurried to get out of the supreme commander’s way, but to himself he smiled. Got to love the murder machine, some days.

“Alert all commands: deploy the fleet,” Piett ordered the techs. He started towards the bridge, but caught sight of Ardan and whipped about with nothing short of a snarl on his tired face. “You, get out of here. And never show yourself in public with your uniform in disarray.”

“I only came here to seek Lieutenant Venka, sir.” Ardan spoke with a confidence he didn’t know he had in stock. Another frontline habit. “I lost my comlink and he was so considerate as—”

Piett waved away his ADCs and stomped over to Ardan. If the scariest sentient in Death Squadron had not walked out moments earlier, the shrimp would have ignited a shiver down his spine. But no such luck, _Admiral_. Ardan beat him to the hushed threats, “Let me be or I’m running after Lord Vader. What would he do if he found out you’re chasing General Veers instead of the Rebels, hm-hm?”

“You are a dead man.” Amidst the seething, bottled up fury, he managed to cram a drop of pity. “Wait here.” He sent an aide to fetch Venka, while he proceeded to the bridge at a slightly faster pace than it was necessary. _Heh. Poor Cold Sweat_.

The lieutenant was not long in coming. Like every normal person near the end of a shift on a Super Star Destroyer, he was too weary to pick fights; fished out a comlink from his pocked and slammed it into Ardan’s hands. His gaze lingered on the rank badge pinned to Ardan’s chest, and the corners of his mouth curled up.

“Thank you…” Ardan leaned forward and squinted at the other man’s rank badge. “…Lieutenant.” _Up yours_.

Venka didn’t miss a beat. “And who is she?”

 _Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit shit_. Ardan blinked.

Venka rolled his dark-circled eyes. “Blast it. I’m too tired for this.” He clumped back to where he’d come from.


	17. Chapter 17

“…and attach a post-scriptum message to—” What was the name of the _Avenger_ ’s second-in-command? Ah yes, “Commander Mosel. Refer to him as captain from now on. Standard congratulations for the rank advancement, and remind him he has a duty to express condolences to his predecessor’s family.”

“Yes, Admiral.” The comm officer looked down at his console and started typing.

The navigation officer, a grey-haired veteran blessed with a gut instinct for when a senior officer’s eyes fixed on her, immediately said, “Squadron route plotted at ninety-three percent, sir.”

“Good, carry on.” He very much needed to cling to any scrap of good news right now, no matter how mundane.

Stars willing, though, now he could have some time to think. A few minutes before the next problem called up from the crew pit. He turned to the viewport and let his gaze wander over the sharp-angled shapes of the Star Destroyers gliding into sight, some fully lit, some mere durasteel glimmers, depending on where the distant sunlight reached them.

A smuggler on the run, with a high-profile Rebel leader on board and two bounties on his head, one Imperial and one Hutt—where does he run? The ‘possible destinations along their last known trajectory’ amounted to two-thousand-odd star systems down the main hyperlane. Not counting minor and uncharted ones, and deep-space docks, rendezvous points only known to the Rebels, just every remotely navigable portion of space; knowing now painfully well that Han Solo was insane, Piett had had that variable included in the calculation. And two-thousand-odd regional governors commed and put on the alert—those who could be trusted not to rat the warning out to the Rebels, that is.

“Route plotted, sir,” the navigation officer announced. Another chimed in, “All ships signal waste jettisoning operations completed, sir.”

“Prepare for hyperspace jump on my mark.”

For lack of better leads—for lack of leads, full stop—at least Death Squadron could proceed to the nearest docking station. Patch up the bruises from the asteroid field frolic. Resupply and rest.

His eyelids fluttered closed. It brought some relief to the slow-burning soreness of his eyes, albeit a relief soon ended by a thump far off down the walkway…

Instead of the quiet vast blackness, what spread out in front of him were the cold lights of a corridor. A man had sagged to the floor on his knees; this had produced the noise. The angle was the same as what he had glimpsed of Needa’s termination. And he was in the captain’s place, gasping for oxygen.

Piett gripped the sill of the viewport, throat dry but unconstrained. He counted his breaths by series of eight. _Here. Now. Still alive. You’re doing well. No danger. It’s gone_.

It took several minutes for reality to settle in again. Several minutes of fighting an urge to tug and tear at his collar.

Lieutenant Venka walked up to him. “Sir, all ships are locked in formation for the jump.”

He turned to the crew pit. “Fleet proceed to hyperspace.”

Pseudomotion stretched the stars into streaks; under his palm, the Lady’s pulse accelerated ever so slightly. If the strain of the engines were _that_ tangible, it would signify trouble. More dangerous trouble than Lord Vader on a bad day. But it was just the viewport shutters clicking into place, dulling the purplish light of the hyperspace tunnel.

Venka shuffled closer. “Admiral, may I have a word?” His shift was over and he should go by now; five o’ clock shadow and too much blinking ruined his brave attempt at a serious face. Piett didn’t want to think how much _he_ must look like he needed sleep, a shave and a shower, and some extra time alone with the galley leftovers in his cabin’s refrigerator.

“You may.”

“It’s about Lieutenant Commander Ardan. I… He left his comlink in a cafeteria this morning. The droid sent a notification to the chief officer of the watch, so I went to pick the thing up.” He wetted his lips, blinking all along.

Either Venka was more easily exhausted than Piett had imagined, or the admiral had put on a scowl without noticing. The admiral didn’t bother putting it out.

“It pinged. I acted upon reflex,” Venka hurried to add, “and answered. It was a woman.”

Hope was a luxury Piett did not allow himself. Evidence does not land in your lap unless someone tosses it at you. Usually to get you on the wrong track. “Half of this ship’s crew and complement are, Lieutenant.” And yet, a scrap of good news… “Get to the point.”

“She called me— _him_ ‘babe’.” His lips curled in disgust.

“Most girlfriends do.”

Just as expected, the dismissive tone riled him up and led him to spit out more details. “Sir, if I may be blunt, most girlfriends also don’t live within range of one’s navy-issue comlink. She must be someone from the crew… The instant I inquired who that was, she shut the comm.”

“Do you have any idea who that was?”

“I… None, sir.” A sideways glance. “But it’s against regulations.”

“It is.”

“This is a warship, not a brothel.”

 _Brothels tend to be better organised than warships_.

“Taking up a shipmate as lover is detrimental to the service.”

Piett nodded calmly, while an energy pike knifed at his ribcage— _just say the word, and I will love you stupid_ —and twisted and turned— _chastity isn’t retroactive, you know?_

“I think, sir, this conduct speaks volumes on the ill results that promoting him to captain of the _Executor_ would bring.”

“I shall keep it in mind. You are dismiss...” _Wait a moment_. “Did that woman say anything else?”

A round of blinking. “Yes sir, she did. I couldn’t understand very well, it took me aback and she spoke in a low voice; but it was something about target practice.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. You are dismissed.”

Venka sucked in breath as if to speak on and his mouth hung open; then he snapped it shut, saluted, and dragged his tired self out of the bridge. A poorer, more desperate junior officer would have kept trying to play his favour-currying card; Lieutenant Venka was well-born enough that he could afford to put repose before ambition, and if the Royal Imperial Academy had not been able to scrub that mentality off him, nothing in the universe could.

Piett turned again to the hyperspace outside the opaqued viewscreens. Target practice, then. One of the first orders fired off by Veers’ general staff had been extensive marksmanship training for the stormtrooper contingent. _Otherwise_ , the general himself had told Ozzel, _on a ship where it’s the navy that does most of the work, they would do nothing but sit idle_. Ozzel didn’t care much for bucketheads but had liked the acknowledgement of the navy’s hard work.

Such a pity the laser-brain’s ounce of diplomatic talent didn’t extend to pillow talk.

Piett blinked back memories, fatigue, and the sheer idea of a bed. Even an empty one. If the fates offered him a temporary respite, it was not for him to waste. He slipped a code cylinder from his pocket and reached the nearest computer terminal, taking care to stand with his back covering the monitor to the nearest warrant officer’s sight—who, in turn, was busy reading on a datapad.

He’d made it to open the stormtroopers’ duty rosters, when the comm officer said, “Admiral, we have an inbound message from Boba Fett.”

A lesser man with a stronger arm would have punched the monitor. Piett snatched the cylinder from the terminal; the screen blipped off. “What does the bounty hunter want?”

“He is tracking the _Millennium Falcon_ , sir.”

Piett all but ran to the crew pit. The comm officer scooted over to let him read the screen.

Hidden among the waste… sublight speed… probable route Bespin… Baron Administrator Calrissian… old business partners with Solo…

The least the admiral could do was relate the message to Vader by himself. Claim at least that crumb of credit. But that would also take time, and Vader did not appreciate officers who valued preening over raw, brutal efficiency. “Forward it to Lord Vader’s quarters.”

“Yessir.”

To the navigation officer, “How long does it take from here to the Bespin system at sublight speed? No, not how long it takes _us_. A Corellian light freighter.” Then, “Calculate a reroute to our last jump coordinates.” Just in case Vader decided to resume the asteroid field chase; Piett dearly hoped he didn’t. “And one to Bespin. Hyperspace exit point must be far enough from the planet as to evade scanning.” Better safe than having to be sorry in front of the supreme commander. Look what being sorry had brought to Needa. “All commands be ready to change course.”

The order applied to the ships in the direst need of a repair stop, too. The _Regent_ had had to power off her shield generators, lest they overloaded and collapsed. The _Monarch_ ’s main bridge crew had been killed, including the captain, when a fragment of asteroid had smashed onto the command tower; the lieutenant who took charge of the auxiliary bridge had recruited TIE pilots to steer the decapitated Star Destroyer. The bravest and most tenacious pursuer, _Avenger_ , had lost seventy percent of her fighters complement, and forty percent of her artillery batteries to collision or sheer overuse. And that didn’t took into account the total losses of the battle on Hoth and the subsequent chase, both of the _Millennium Falcon_ and the other Rebel ships forcing their way past the blockade…

“Yessir.”

New orders materialised within a few minutes. Seeing and talking to Lord Vader through videocomm filled Piett with more dread than interacting with His Lordship in person; the circumstances of Ozzel’s demotion chose that moment to rush back at him, packing a punch the real thing had delivered at half power. On the eve of the battle, there had been elation to counterbalance the fear. Hope. Confidence. At long last, he was in command. Now… now he had to follow a bounty hunter’s trail. He allowed himself a faint, pathetic sigh of relief when Vader said, “Good”, upon learning a course for Bespin was already plotted and the admiral had seen it fit to avoid barging into the system at close range.

Vader declared he would contact the mining city administrator personally.

By now, Piett should have been worried and outraged, or worst of all inured, at the supreme commander’s nonchalance in striking deals with the various samples of galactic scum. Instead, he felt relieved this humiliating task didn’t fall upon him. Relief made him steel up and dare to say, “My lord, our ships have suffered heavy damage; the _Executor_ should be able to hold her ground alone over Bespin—”

There was a movement at the left side of the screen, a hand waving. Piett’s heart skipped a beat. But no invisible noose tied his neck. At once Vader interrupted him, “We will be setting up a snare, Admiral, not a siege. With the exception of this ship, the fleet may continue to Seswenna as per its previous orders.”

“Yes, my lord.” Finally a good news in full, not just a scrap. “Travelling on sublight engines, the arrival of the _Millennium Falcon_ in the Bespin system is estimated in seventeen days. By then, the rest of Death Squadron or at least most of it could be able to regroup and join us.”

“Do not be so sure.” The monitor went dark.

 _I am not_ , Piett wished he could reply. If anything, it meant Lord Vader had read the reports and was aware of his ships’ battered conditions. Not that this would stop him from hurling them _again_ into a chase like this, if he wanted to. But—scraps of good news.

In the meantime, a fresh officer of the watch had shown up to take over Venka’s shift. She gave the admiral a sprightly salute, every muscle under her well-ironed uniform shouting top physical shape, and related the navigation officer’s estimate: the trip to Bespin was going to take the _Executor_ seven standard hours.

Three and a half for taking care of the paperwork that awaited him in his office; half an hour for dinner (he could also speed up the process by eating while he worked) and a clean-up; three for blessed sleep. “Should anything out of the ordinary happen, comm me immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer of the watch cast a glance at the bridge; a few millimetre of cocked eyebrow. “Sir, may I ask where the captain is?”

Piett felt fairly sure he was giving her one of those looks that sometimes slipped through his self-control, that made Ozzel snarl at him to _quit that snooty leer_ before he _punched it off his rat-face_. “There is no new captain yet, Lieutenant Jauer; for the time being, I am acting as such. Regarding who that will be—who knows? Maybe you.”

He strutted off the bridge, leaving behind a dumbstruck lieutenant and a mighty rumour for the mill to grind.


	18. Chapter 18

On the way back to his office, Veers received three calls in a row. He’d feared worse, on one hand. On the other, at this time he still qualified as not to be disturbed unless in case of emergency.

None of the things Major Tantor first, Colonel Covell second, and Tantor’s aide as third, had to tell him or ask him was an emergency. He had a very hard time repressing a groan, however, at the news some unheard-of Rebel cell or pirates or both had ransacked the thorilide storehouses on Karideph. Good-fucking-bye to the speedy repairs on the walkers’ gun sections.

Pacing in front of the office door like a sentinel trying to warm up his feet, he found Tantor in person. With a stack of datapads and printed folders under each arm.

“I brought all the reports you asked, sir.”

“That many?” Veers led the way inside, prying a datapad from Tantor’s hold. “I don’t remember asking for this one.”

“You didn’t sir, but would have after you’d seen the dispatches from the Corellia sector.”

As he sat down heavily behind the desk, Veers didn’t bother to hide an irritated sigh. “Do I really wish to know why the Corellia sector is relevant to us?” He hadn’t even liked the planet when he was stationed there commanding the garrison of that mining cesspool, Kolene.

Tantor raised his eyebrows. “I think you don’t, sir.” Then, at a flick of the general’s fingers, he dumped the paperwork on the desk. Long practice, and the results of excellent physical training, allowed him to do so without a single flimsi sheet slipping out of the neat stacks.

Veers plucked the first datapad on top of the right-side stack, and the stylus on his desk. Before surrendering to his fate, he looked up at Tantor. “There is something else that needs addressing, isn’t there?”

A second passed in silence. “Covell was wondering what was the matter with the propaganda officer.” Not the politest of formulations but, knowing Covell, this must be a heavily bowdlerised version.

“A petty incident. Overblown.”

Tantor nodded, seeming convinced because it would be insolent not to be so. “Has it been cleared up?”

The general’s stomach tied up into a tight knot.

“I could see to it if you’re too busy, sir,” Tantor offered, bless his innocent heart.

“Yes, it has. But you better tell—what’s his name? Major Laestri.”

Tantor’s ruddy-cheeked kid face darkened. “Quite the temper tantrums he throws.”

“I don’t have to add court-martial proceedings for disrespect towards a superior officer to _this_ ,” Veers waved the stylus at the stacks of bumf, “or do I?”

“I have no intention of pressing charges. Laestri is a good soldier if somewhat volatile, very protective of his men—and if I may speak freely, sir…”

“Yes, do.”

“Anything that has to do with COMPNOR tends to unsettle even the best of us, to a degree.”

“What about Covell?”

Tantor shifted on his feet a little. “His only cause of worry was the involvement of Lieutenant Kijé. Unsettling even to the best of us, sir, as I was saying.”

“There is,” Veers struggled to keep his voice low and even, “absolutely nothing to worry about.” The result was acceptable. He could tell by Tantor’s expression relaxing in the slightest.

“And while you’re at it,” the general went on, “tell Laestri to keep his loud mouth shut. If an overblown version of this story starts making the rounds in the officers’ mess, I have no desire to be the one the admiral takes the lash out on.”

“Of course, sir; the navy has a bit of a reputation—”

“For now you’re dismissed, Major.”

“Yes, sir.”

Veers watched Tantor stride out of the office, waited a few seconds after the door had slid closed behind him, for safety’s sake, then rocked back on his chair hissing a curse to the small square of starfield in the window. What if _this_ was being recorded on the secret CCTV, too…? _Who in the nine hells cares_ , he reminded himself. He’d vented in a much cruder wording, more than once, in this very room and sometimes in his cabin when worries and stress stalked him to bed. Nothing bad had ever come out of it. Yet.

He flipped the datapad open and began reading:

_The purpose of this report is to describe and assess the current capacity and safety of the planetside supply depots on Segment A, B, and C of the Lipsec Run. It is based on up-to-date information provided by inspectors of the Imperial Navy and the Imperial Security Bureau, who completed a total of six tours across the aforementioned hyperlane segments within the past eight standard months (see Sections 8 and 9 for a detailed breakdown). I have no desire to be the one the admiral takes the lash out on._

Veers shook his head and blinked.

 _who completed a total of six tours across the aforementioned hyperlane segments within the past eight standard months (see Sections 8 and 9 for a detailed breakdown). This report will only take into account the planetside depots, as inspections on the three military space stations within the interested area (Virgillia I and II, Abridon VIII) are still underway._ _Are you keeping me company?_

He slammed the datapad down on the desk. Unsure if the worst thing was the intrusive thoughts per se, or his negative answer to that question.

No, neither, he chided himself in the cold tone of the academy instructor. _The worst thing is that you’re thinking about it at all. You’re letting it get in the way of your duty._

That didn’t give him the sting of angry motivation he’d hoped for, but his mind did feel clearer. Ready for another try. To hell with the Lipsec Run for now; he picked up the second datapad in the stack:

_Imperial Armed Forces Sanitary Corps – 21 st Annual Overview On Sexually Transmitted Infections Among Land Forces Personnel_

Veers put the datapad back where it had been, grateful to the galaxy’s powers-that-be for leaving him alone behind a locked door while his cheeks burned like grilled nerfburgers. Best just give the Lipsec Run another chance.

His attention span wavered towards the end of the second page, and flickered off within three quarters of the third. He sat gazing, through almost-shut eyes, at the small body in an unbuttoned, half open admiral’s uniform, lying supine on the desk. Veers clutched the datapad tighter, but the fictional mirror images of his hands pulled clothes up and ran over quivering, eager skin. His mouth soon followed hungrily.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, let out a sharp breath, called himself an idiot, and resumed reading.

_The task of keeping the solar arrays and atmosphere generators functional on Lipsic presently falls, as per Planetary Subcontract n. HL-5501, upon Martor Grimwater & Sons Ltd. (Sector Military Contract Authorisation n. 9914580). The company claims further efforts at improving planet-wide Human life support have been hampered by lack of funding…_

_…as soon as Moff Rakewell instituted double patrols and a ring of checkpoints along the main city areas, despite quickly addressed complaints from the former Senate representative…_

_…storage capacity has been increased by 39%, but data collected by Assessor Potalla’s team suggests a further augmentation hitting a 50% peak is not only feasible but also strongly recommended. Should the need arise for an immediate substitution of the facility commander…_

He tapped to turn the page, and in that fraction of second his eyes wandered over to the desk. It was him lying there this time, the stacks of bumf spread over the floor in a half-frustrating, half-satisfying chaos. The back of his head hung over the edge of the desk, his fingers clawed at the synth-wood surface, his trousers were pulled down to his boots and something was moving between his thighs; the instant he tried to look up, a lash hit him across the jaw.

He squirmed on the chair, hissing in pain and pleasure, and bit his lower lip where the stroke had landed. It was a disappointment not to taste any real blood there. And the stacks of bumf towered, untouched and undamaged, in front of him where they’d always been. He felt hot under the tunic, but resisted the temptation to unbutton the flap. As for the sudden snugness of his pants, there was nothing to do but tolerate in silence.

Or… He glanced at the door—the nearest toilet room was just down the corridor.

This time he slapped himself, hard. Meaning it. Crossed his legs and got back to the Lipsic Run.

By dinner time, the stack on his left had been scaled down to a quarter of its initial height. The officers’ mess had a lot to gossip about: Lord Vader had killed off the _Avenger_ ’s captain, and Admiral Piett had refused to appoint a new captain for the _Executor_. Which explained his absence from the officers’ mess tonight, and elicited some cruel wit: with the double task of macro-managing the fleet as admiral’s job, and micro-managing the city-sized flagship as captain’s job, the poor man must be already considering a voluntary jump out the nearest airlock.

On grounds of his own tiredness, Veers excused himself out of an active conversational role, eavesdropping as he sipped on vitamin slur and today’s chowder. Tensing up a little every time the admiral’s name reached his ears.

Every once in a while, a chance eye contact with either Covell or Tantor would happen; both seemed well at ease, and nobody mentioned Miss Propaganda. To be extra sure, after finishing his dinner he took the long-winded route out of the mess hall, passing by the table at which Major Laestri sat. The major, a wiry fellow brandishing a spoon like it was a lightsabre, was inflicting on his neighbours an oddly accented tirade about ‘the door-bolt defence’. All chatter died off the instant the general walked by and slowed to a halt.

Laestri put the spoon down and saluted as required. He’d grown a pencil moustache, barely visible against his dark brown skin, since last time Veers had seen him on the training ground. He’d also grown some silver hair.

“Is it sports or infantry tactics you’re discussing, Major?”

“Gravball, sir.” His expression was as serious as if he’d answered infantry tactics.

Veers pretended to find it amusing, and left the mess hall. The major didn’t run after him. Nor did anybody else. He could retreat to his cabin, and recover the missed sleep from last night.

His living quarters greeted him with the usual neatness. Faint smell of floor disinfectant, bed made, change of uniform ready for tomorrow.

_Almost like you do surprise inspections on your own room._

He tossed off the thought along with his cap, which landed on the empty desk facing the wall. Then he stripped to his socks and pants in fast pulls, trying not to touch himself any more than the strict necessary, and staring at a random point on the floor. It worked. No other feeling—no other embarrassing feeling—than the routine relief at getting rid of boots and clothes worn the whole day.

Disaster struck when he got into the ‘fresher and caught sight of himself in the mirror. A big purple hickey marred his throat just below the lump, and a few smaller ones circled the base of his neck. “Oh, shit.” Someone must have seen it. No way in the nine hells it could be mistaken for anything else—a boxing bruise? That meant giving Sergeant Major Laval a lot more credit than she deserved…

Veers leaned towards the mirror, squinted at the reflection, prodded the marks with an index finger. There were actual bites along the spiky ridge of his collarbone. Just as helplessly, he watched his face redden.

How had he not noticed in the morning—right, the cold shower, and he was too angry to think well. Same for when he’d changed into boxing gear and back into service dress; of fucking course he’d been too angry to think well, or to think at all.

The force of parade ground habit drew his eyes to scan the rest of the ungainly soldier in the mirror. Piett had been far too chivalrous, or too blinded by lust, in calling him an enjoyable view. By the sweet stars, he was getting old. Gaining fat where the muscles used to be as tough as stormtrooper armour; hair growing grey; even the old battle scars had faded into thin lines, with the only dubious exception of whatever smudge would remain of the Hoth wound under the bacta patch.

It was a good thing Eliana had died young; she was too pretty for an old soldier. Too kind, as well. Too many other things he didn’t deserve. Any other reward for his work, beside promotions and more missions, was out of place. Unclean.

He splashed cold water on his face and down his neck. Closing his eyes and shivering at the cold was a double mistake. It stirred up a different ache, and this time he was off-duty, certain that nobody was watching—well, was he?, he tried to make himself doubt, and it didn’t work. He gripped the edge of the sink, bent his upper body until his forehead touched the mirror.

Last call to cut this nonsense short. _This is stupid. Stupid claptrap for horny cadets_. It would wear off if he did the decent thing and waited it out. Like always.

“Have no mercy,” he breathed, his voice ragged. He pictured in his mind, in his ears, on the skin of his back, the hiss-whack of the lash and the fiery line of pain across his shoulder blades. More followed. Several more than he could’ve handled in reality. The vividness of his own imagination worried him, but it brought a swift climax and left him too exhausted for soul-searching. Thank the stars it did, like fatigue knocking soldiers to sleep on the most uncomfortable grounds.

Day cycle arrived all too soon, as it always did. But he felt rested after the full seven standard hours of sleep. At the ‘fresher mirror, it was General Maximillian Veers who stared back at him, impeccably shaved, combed and dressed. The collar of his tunic concealed the fading hickey on his neck. Not a shade of weakness remained.

He headed out for breakfast and the rest of yesterday’s paperwork, just when a younger officer in a wrinkled uniform lumbered towards the cabin four doors ahead of his up the corridor.

In all honesty, as far as blackmailers went, this boy was a disappointment.

Veers had already seen the mug shot, and had seen him in person before—one of the many faces attached on the top of uniforms, to acknowledge only when they properly saluted a superior in the corridor or failed to do so. The latter had never been Lieutenant Commander Ardan’s case. It wasn’t even now.

The young man stood on attention by the cabin door he was about to open. He looked tired and in need of a shave. Veers, on his way to a morning briefing just as Ardan must be just out of night shift, deigned him with a frowning once-over and strode past.

In his mind, the general added a tack to a list: _chance encounter number 3_. No later than a day since the admiral had warned— _ordered_ him to play dumb. Veers had vague memories of not seeing his neighbours, back home on Denon, over the arc of weeks unless his parents invited them for tea. This was just too convenient not to be suspicious.

“Uh, General Veers, right?”

Something, in the way the little shit rolled his name on his tongue, made Veers spin on his heels with a raising right arm and balled up fist.

Ardan didn’t take the clue. “May I have a word, sir?” Same stand on attention by the closed door, not a twitch of his face perturbing the perfect subaltern’s blank gaze of innocence.

“You already had, Lieutenant.” Veers said that in his best scare growl, tried and tested on countless stormtroopers and a handful of POWs that, afterwards, hadn’t needed the persuasive methods of the Security Bureau to spit out their bits of intel. It surprised the general that the junior officer did not flinch.

Ardan drew in a deep breath, and out in a sigh. “I’m not quite sure what the admiral likes about you, sir, in all honesty. Bar the unmentionable.”

That should have enraged him. It did. But Veers felt damn sure he was baring his teeth in a grin of sort. The one you can’t help in the thick of a good fight. He took half a step towards Ardan, and this time the stupid lad stepped backwards into the doorframe.

Someone walked in. Two officers from one side of the corridor, a tech from the other.

Veers squared his shoulders and folded his arms. However, nothing could take away the satisfaction to see the little nerf-shit go pale. Stupid as they were, bridge officers interacted with Lord Vader more often than anyone (save for medical droids and the TIE Advanced x1) on the _Executor_ ; keeping their cool was a basic survival requirement. It felt damn good to visibly intimidate one.

“I’m in a hurry. You have three minutes. Use them wisely.”

“The tactical briefing awaits you, I suppose.” Ardan managed a courteous smile, but his tone had lost much of the mocking edge. “All I ask is that you send me a copy of the transcripts. And the whole classified report on the ground attack at the Rebel base. Losses,” he counted on his fingers, “prisoners’ lists, blueprints, what repairs the Thundering Herd needs and where it’s getting them from.”

“Go ask the officer of the day.”

Ardan narrowed his eyes. “But… they wouldn’t they tell me that I don’t have the necessary clearances to see those documents, now would they?”

One had to wonder if the lad hadn’t simply watched too many crime holoflicks. “Of course.” It wasn’t worth playing dumb with him. Sure, Veers would have to explain the admiral later, but he pushed the thought aside for the moment.

Ardan blinked. “Sorry, sir, I think I’ve garbled up my own line—”

The tech had disappeared down the corridor, the two officers parted ways at the opposite corners. Only a mouse droid scurried by.

“ _You_ have no idea in what pit of bantha dung you’re swimming, Lieutenant.”

“If I send that tape to the Joint Chiefs,” Ardain said too fast for the veiled threat to rub on, “it’ll be you and Admiral Piett on the line of fire, sir. The admiral understood the full implications, including those that you would be forced to face, General.”

Veers pushed the vivid pictures of those full implications, as Piett’s deadpan voice had first conjured them, down a blast-proof chute of his mind. “Thank you for your concern, let me reciprocate: will you take the _implications_ with the same grace as Admiral Piett, when they come to you under the guise of thought policemen?”

Ardan held his stare, but the look in his eyes was fixed. Glinting with fear of the paralysing kind. He squeezed a small voice out of his throat, “I warned the Admiral not to try and—”

“Oh no, lad, it’s not to him that we owe our gratitude for the imminent triumph of justice. It’s to Lieutenant Kijé.”

“…Who?”

“To answer your real question: yes. We all know you stole her credentials. I, the admiral, Kijé herself, and her superiors at COMPNOR.” Veers gave him a grim smile. “I’m sure that shovelling spice on Kessel will be a very educational experience for you.”

This crushed the naval officer’s composure at last; he blinked, he sputtered, went sickly pale like a corpse in the Hoth snow.

Veers would have loved to stay and watch until the lad crumpled to a weeping, begging mass on the floor, but the war wasn’t taking a pause for the two of them. “Remain at disposal,” he said in his most authoritative officer-like tone, that made Ardan snap back into attention, “for when they come to arrest you. Cooperation is of the essence. This is the flagship of the Imperial Navy and we will not have a shootout on board. Is that understood?”

“Yessir— _they_?”

“You are dismissed now, Lieutenant.” Veers took half a step forward, then turned again. “I’d savour the comforts of a warm, clean room with a bed and running water, if I were you. Lodging may not be so good in a penal colony.” Leaving that knife stuck satisfyingly deep in the little bastard’s guts, he ambled off to work.


	19. Chapter 19

“Bespin system? Why are we here?” Kijé read again the pop-up window announcing the _Executor_ had returned to realspace. Out of old habit she glanced at the wall, to the point where the window in her old bedroom would be, open on terraces brimming with flowers and the ocean shimmering in the background. The cabin wall was nothing but durasteel and propaganda holoposters—as nice as they were from an artistic standpoint. “Last night’s bulletin said we were going to Kuat for repairs.”

“ _The reason for this detour is classified, as per Lord Vader’s order_ ,” said Bethan.

“Ah.”

Sixtee’s servomotors whirred behind her. “Ma’am,” the protocol droid said, “I have finished screening the first batch of correspondence. Twenty-one messages fit the Imperial Board of Censorship criteria for ‘suspicious’.”

“Cool. Upload them here and I’ll take a look.”

“If I may be permitted, ma’am, defining such instances as ‘cool’ might be interpreted as a sign of anti-Imperial feelings.”

Kijé sighed. The fixing had zeroed Sixtee’s humour and irony personality subroutine. “I was being sarcastic, Sixtee. I know better than anyone there’s nothing cool about potential treason.” It was odd to utter the words, to _mean_ them. Having to spell out such obvious things.

The incoming holomessages box pinged. Chief Kastle. The comm lasted for two minutes, and blew up several hours of joy at Sixtee returning from the repairs bay and work going smoothly—well, Kijé had assumed it was going smoothly, until Kastle explained neither he nor ‘the rest of the office’ shared her optimistic appraisal of the situation.

To her mild surprise, she had to feign the quiver in her voice as she said, “Yes, sir, I understand. I will make up for the time lost.”

Kastle’s blueish hologram responded with an eye roll. Then the hologram flicked off.

“Now, the suspicious correspondence.” She swiped the messages over to the main screen, and it was only at the end of the second, where a TIE bomber pilot wrote her mother that flying through the asteroid field—diffusion of classified tactical information—had been ‘stuff no flight school prepares you for’—implying the quality of Imperial military flight schools was poor, charge of defamation—that Kijé realised something was missing: fear. The stampede of negative thoughts grinding her brain to a shrieking halt. Any alteration to her heart rate, the need to take slow breaths in series of eight.

In short, for no reason at all she felt fine. Far from her to complain, but…

“Bethan, can you look up my medical record and see what pills I was given yesterday in the medbay?”

“ _Of course, ma’am_.”

A window with the MedCorps logo at the top covered the portion of the pilot’s communiqué, that Sixtee had marked out in red highlight.

Kijé’s jaw dropped as she read the name of the medicine. “Did that madman think _I_ was going to fly into the asteroid field?”

“Has someone slighted you, ma’am?” asked Sixtee. “That is a punishable offence—”

“Nothing, never mind.” The dose was small, thank all the good stars; she sighed in relief at reading the milligrams. A tenth of the amount they prescribed to fighter pilots. “It wasn’t normal that I was feeling so well for such a long time. I knew it. Should’ve known since I talked back to that prig of the general.”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but who is the general?” asked Sixtee, bending so that his photoreceptors could try and make contact with her eyes. “I ought to remind you that ‘prig’ is an insulting term in Galactic Basic, and verbal disrespect towards a superior officer is a felony—”

Kijé rose, stretched an arm to Sixtee’s neck, and switched off the droid in mid-sentence. Kijé couldn’t help a sigh of relief, as sorry a sight as the protocol droid made, bent forward with his arms dangling. “Bethan, find me an instruction manual for the irony and humour subroutine in Sixtee’s series.”

“ _Yes, ma’am. Will you attempt a partial reprogramming?_ ”

Kijé shrugged. “I know better than letting someone spy on me.”

“ _If you have made a joke, I fear the humour is lost on my circuits, ma’am. Shall I run a troubleshooting scan on my humour and irony subroutine, too?_ ”

“Nah, you’re cool.”

The door sensor rang. The built-in lock camera activated on one of Bethan’s secondary screens, and in a few seconds the facial recognition software displayed a string of data with name, surname, serial number, and rank.

Kijé didn’t need to read it. One glimpse at the screen, and she whispered to Bethan, “Turn off your monitors. Record every word spoken in this room from now on.” Then she flew to slam a hand on the lock, straightening her hat and her collar during the run, just in time before the door slid open.

Clad in the light grey service dress for off-duty hours, unarmed and with an open-face helmet, Chenda drew herself up to attention. “Good day, ma’am. I told you I’d check back sometime. My apologies if I couldn’t get a free moment earlier.”

“Duty first, of course. Good on you.” Kijé cleared her voice. “I really appreciate your concern, thank you. I’m all fine now.”

“I can tell, ma’am. Don’t know if you’ve had a night of good sleep or an extra strong caf this morning, but you seem fine. With all due respect, ma’am.”

Kijé caught herself before answering: a _drug for coffin jockeys!_ “I’ve gotten my protocol droid back. And my code cylinder was scanned and checked.” She patted on the breast pocket of her uniform. “Oh, and Captain Visdei suggested I started carrying a stinger. For extra safety. So I ordered one from the armoury, and...” She gestured at her right boot. “Just a stun blade. But it’s kind of cool to carry it in a boot. You think they only do those things in holoflicks.”

“Confidence booster, innit?”

“Yes. Speaking of confidence, I… I think we have a certain matter to discuss, actually.”

“Consider me at your disposal.” If she suspected anything, she hid it as well as if she were wearing the full helmet.

Kijé motioned her inside. First thing Sixtee had been tasked to do, once back from repair, had been a clean-up of the whole cabin; he had protested, citing naval laws that forbade the use of service droids for personal purposes, but in the end he’d summoned a squad of mouse droids and, next time Kijé had looked away from the computer, the floor was scrubbed clean and not one rumpled piece of clothing remained scattered around. The door that led to the small personal quarters was not just closed, but locked.

She spared a thought for all the times she’d wracked herself with self-consciousness when inviting friends into her room. It made her almost laugh. She pointed at a chair. “Take a seat.”

The stormtrooper obeyed.

Kijé occupied her usual swivelling chair in front of the computer, turning to face Chenda. Who, for the record, was cocking an eyebrow at the protocol droid frozen in his place.

“It’s fine,” Kijé said. “I switched him off. Is that a problem?”

“Never been fond of droids, ma’am,” Chenda replied in slightly lower and gruffer voice than her usual—or was this her usual, and Kijé was just used to hear it through the helmet vocaliser? “My pa served in the Corellian sector fleet during the Wars. Got no good tales of the clankers to tell.”

“I can imagine.” An Annice Kijé from another life, a student whose curiosity had seemed _this_ close to break through the ingrained constant fear, wanted to ask where he had served. On what ship, in which battle, if as part of the Corellian fleet or under Republic command. “Do you know one Lieutenant Commander Ardan?” Heartache seeped into the question, at having to ask it.

“Yes, ma’am,” Chenda answered without missing a beat. “I met him yesterday for the first time. Said the admiral wanted to hear what the fuss was all about with you winding up at the medbay, ma’am. So I followed him to the bridge deck. Wouldn’t have dreamed of questioning an order anyway.”

“And what did you tell the admiral?” Strange. Piett had made no mention of this encounter—better not mince words: of this interrogation.

“Nothing, ma’am. During the lift ride, Lieutenant Commander Ardan commed someone and they told him the admiral was busy. So he went his way to the bridge and I back to barracks. That was all, ma’am.”

“Yes, I imagine an admiral’s a very busy person.” To be fair, the late Admiral Ozzel seldom seemed busy. Although he did claim to be when he had an insistent subordinate to chase off. The junior officers knew their holomessages home were reviewed for censorship purposes, and yet, sometimes they couldn’t keep this or that Ozzel anecdote to themselves; if half of the stories were true, Kijé had the humble impression, in her ignorance of most things naval, that entrusting her life to such a commander was more disquieting than entrusting it to Lord Vader. “Did Captain Visdei or Major Laestri say anything?”

Her head tilted a bit to the left, and her eyes narrowed of a fraction of a degree, like an aborted blink. “About what, ma’am?”

“Are they good officers? Do they care for their soldiers?”

“Yes, ma’am, they are, and they do.” A full affirmative tone, accompanied by a sharp nod. Textbook definition for the ring of truth.

 _So this is you not lying_. “When did you—”

A chime at the door again. Kijé flinched on her seat, but managed to put the momentum to good use, get up, and go to open the door.

The man at the threshold slanted a look at the corridor before squaring his shoulders and hiding his hands—they had been fidgeting until that moment—behind his back. “Lieutenant Kijé, ma’am, I am Lieutenant Commander Ardan. I need to talk to you. It’s important.” As she stayed silent, he cast another glance at the corridor. “If you’re busy—”

“Oh no, come in, come in. You are more welcome than you can imagine.”

As soon as their footsteps echoed into the room, Chenda turned, and leapt to her feet on attention. Her face was as unchanged as those of the war heroes in the holoposters. And her eyes were fixed on Lieutenant Commander Ardan.

“What is the meaning of this?” said he.

“You don’t recognise me out of my armour, sir.” The corners of Chenda’s mouth curled up. “Happens every time. Trooper First Class Soult, sir. We met yesterday. You had to take me to the admiral, but he—”

“Please,” Kijé interrupted her, “Lieutenant Commander Ardan knows the story already.”

He had grown a lot paler than the picture of him Admiral Piett had shown Kijé the previous day. His jaw was locked, lips tight, and his chest heaved visibly in the form-fitting uniform.

Kijé wanted to smile, at herself of all people having this effect on someone else. But she kept the warm fire confined within, and looked away from Ardan before he realised he was being stared at.

Courtesy of stormtrooper training, Chenda kept her cool much better. “I take it you and Lieutenant Commander Ardan have service matters to discuss, ma’am. I’ll take my leave at once.” But she didn’t move yet, not without orders.

“No, stay,” said Kijé. “You may sit down.”

She obeyed like the good soldier she was. Or pretended to be.

“You were saying, Lieutenant?”

His eyes darted from Kijé to Chenda and back. “I am not sure if this is appropriate—”

Kijé laughed. Louder than she expected. She noticed both her guests flinch; Ardan more than Chenda. “I am the thought police, Lieutenant! You can trust me on spying matters.”

Ardan clenched his fists, but made an effort to smile. Had Kijé not spent the past four months doing propaganda work, that would have ranked as the fakest thing she’d ever seen.

“Clearly,” he said, “if you say there is no trouble… Soldier, I trust in your discretion.”

“Yessir.”

“So, what is this important thing?” asked Kijé, crossing her arms.

A glance at Chenda. “Ma’am, I’m being blackmailed. I’ve been framed.”

“Framed? By whom?”

He drew a pained breath. When he spoke again, his voice was small, “General Veers, ma’am.”

“What makes you think so?”

Chenda sat very still. He looked at her with nothing short of despair on his face, and might as well have begged a slab of duracrete, or Lord Vader, for clemency.

“This morning, I was returning to my quarters after night shift. I met him on the front door, so to speak, and he accused me of having stolen your credentials. And money from your account. Money!” He threw up his arms. “If there’s one good thing to be said for me, it is that I’m not poor!”

Kijé blinked. Where in the universe was that a thing to brag about…? Ah, right, Core Worlds spoiled children. Well, rich children all across the galaxy, if certain classmates of hers had been any indication. “I know Veers is quite… proletarian, lineage-wise, but his salary shouldn’t put him in the need for—”

“No, no, I don’t mean he stole the money for himself, I—he wants to make me appear guilty! To keep me silent, don’t you see?” He’d leaned forward in the frenzy of his own words, and pulled back in a fit of coughing too polite to sound genuine. _Amateur. You’re faking a dry throat all wrong._

“And why would he want to keep you silent?” She wondered, too late, if her choice of words didn’t sound a bit mocking, aping his.

Ardan glanced at Chenda. Then to the door, to the ceiling, to his boots, and back at Kijé. Attempting to cover up. “I don’t know, ma’am. I hoped you could help me? He has wronged both of us, after all.”

“So, do you wish to report the second highest-ranking officer on the _Executor_ —”

“Third highest, ma’am,” mumbled Chenda. For an instant Ardan went completely still, not even breathing.

“—for theft and blackmailing?”

“I…” He shook his head. “Wait, do you mean file an official lawsuit?”

Kijé smiled, and a part of her brain noticed the weirdness of her smile. No wonder that TIE pilots, after taking a more massive dose of these meds, had no trouble flying asteroid steeplechases on shieldless crafts. “Lieutenant,” technically he outranked her, but the chain of command had somehow stopped to matter, “I am not sure what warped idea you have of my work on this ship, but COMPNOR has rules. And proper forms for each kind of request.”

“F-forms?” The way Ardan stuttered it out, he sounded more scared of bureaucracy than of Lord Vader.

“You will need three. If you were a civilian you’d have to add a revenue stamp, but since you’re in the Imperial armed forces, you get this one perk. Oh, and legible signature in cursive Aurebesh, please! You have no idea of the scrawls we get to see; it’s like some planets _chose_ to ignore Basic in their primary school programmes.”

“But aren’t we under the law of suspects? I mean… shouldn’t it be enough to have him arrested?”

Kijé shrugged. “It’s not like he’s trying to defect to the Rebellion, is it?”

She caught a movement at the corner of her eye. Chenda. Her ankles weren’t crossed, last time Kijé had looked in her direction.

“Besides, Lieutenant Commander,” Kijé played the rest of her thought police part, “it’s your word against a general’s.”

“How can such a trivial thing as _rank_ count, if the Empire’s safety is at stake?” A little late for trying to pass for a fanatic.

“I suppose, then, that if _your_ rank were at stake, and it _will_ be if your suspicions turn out to be unfounded, you would take a demotion in good sport?”

He drew a sharp, hissing breath through his nose. “I’m going to tell Captain Ronnadam.” His voice was officer-like again. Pity his eyes were shiny with tears, and the overall effect was that of a boy trying to pull a brave face to a scraped knee. So comical that Kijé wondered, behind the mask of the thought policewoman, why she had ever found boys so intimidating as never to dare ask one out on a date.

“I’ll tell him you refused to investigate a potential thief and traitor.”

The boys in her hometown were loud and smoked too much slickweed, but they weren’t intimidating in _this_ sense. That blasted frontline medication, however, sprayed firefighting foam on her fear. “Is that a threat?”

“I am a loyal officer—”

“And I am a _loyalty_ officer. Shall we take it up both to Leosh,” hopefully either that was Captain Ronnadam’s correct first name, or Ardan ignored it as much as she did, “and see whom he decides to trust?” She had never exchanged a word with Ronnadam and, if she knew anything about ISB officers, he would indeed report her for failure to act on an unsupported rumour. _If_ it was unsupported. The general had been kind of strange yesterday. So had the admiral. She pictured the latter piloting a shuttle that delivered all three… no, all five of them, counting also Ardan and Chenda, to Kessel. Her brain decided to find it amusing. She used it to give herself the strength to smirk.

The bridge officer’s arrogance evaporated like early morning mist after sunrise. “I… I’m sure you know better, Lieutenant.”

“I take it you aren’t interested in filing the official denunciation, then?”

“I should have known,” his voice dropped to a mumble, “it’s pointless to go against a senior officer. Like Shale all over again.”

“ _General_ Shale?”

Ardan and Kijé both shot Chenda a look. The stormtrooper clamped her mouth shut at once, and sat up ramrod-straight from the slightly forward-leaning position she’d slumped into. Listening.

“Yes, General Shale,” said Ardan, turning to look Chenda in the eyes. Tears were glinting at the corners of his, and all of a sudden he sounded tired. “I was there to watch at Hill 787. The whole Operation Anvil until the last grass blade was burning. I never told anyone.”

Something in his tone, something in the way their stares lingered on each other…

Ardan squared his shoulders. He was still blinking too much. “I wish to withdraw all accusations. My apologies for wasting our time, Lieutenant.”

His final sideways glance was for the powered-off protocol droid. Or maybe he was checking for active recording devices, and noticing none on Bethan’s obscured screens, he took his leave.

“Do not worry, Trooper,” said Kijé to Chenda anticipating the question in her wary eyes. “You were authorised, on my authority, to listen to that conversation.” Or: if Chenda needed proof that Lieutenant Commander Ardan was powerless to harm her, she’d had it. Kijé nearly begged her aloud: _now talk, tell me everything, pull yourself out of this sordid affair_.

Was this, she wondered, the same kind of courage that brought soldiers to risk their life for their comrades? Or for commanders like Veers? _It’s what makes every sacrifice worth the effort, for the greater good of the galaxy_. An automated words cross-checking software had told Kijé the general had quoted a speech delivered by Moff Gaaqu at the Prefsbelt Academy, two standard years ago. Unimaginative, plagiarising prig. _I hope you get caught and ridiculed for that, sir_. She wasn’t even sorry to think so ill of a superior officer. He had it coming. And copying a speech could be interpreted as a sign of disaffection to the cause...

“As you wish, ma’am. If I’m not needed here anymore—”

“I hope I didn’t scare you off,” Kijé said too fast, “my attempts at small talk do end up resembling interrogations or so I’m told...” Okay, that was too much. Lampshading is only good in small amounts to be a credible excuse.

“Nothing of the sort, ma’am. It’s just that I’ve got to visit a few pals in the medbay before my next shift.”

“Wounded from Hoth?”

Chenda nodded.

Kijé knew she ought to ask her more, buy time, keep her here and keep talking. “Thank you for your time, Trooper,” she said instead. “You may go.”

The other woman sprang to her feet, saluted, and left the cabin at a brisk, stormtrooper-y pace.

“Holy shit!” Kijé sank back on the chair. Her heart still refused to beat faster, and her brain to release an avalanche of whatever chemical thingies caused a Human brain to lock into fight-or-flight state. “I’ve always known everyone on this ship has bigger troubles than me, but this is a whole new level.” A moment later she remembered her last order to the computer. “Stop recording, Bethan, and wake up.”

The screens lit up all at once, the light bouncing on Sixtee’s over-polished surface. Kijé had to shield her eyes. “How many violations to Imperial laws were contained in this conversation’s record? Just asking for a friend.” Pray Chenda had felt like she could count on a friend here. Even if not on such warm terms.

After a few seconds, Bethan said a number. This time Kijé’s heart pounded.

“ _Shall I forward the file to Captain Ronnadam, ma’am? I remind you it is the required course of action, according to the Imperial Penal Code—_ ”

“Open the audio editor, and load the file there.” Kijé pulled the chair closer to the desk and cracked her knuckles.

It was an easy work, that took her no more than five minutes. Then, with all references to Trooper First Class Chenda Soult erased from the audio track, she took a deep breath (which she didn’t really need, but it wasn’t the moment to fight against the force of habit) and dialled the ISB officer’s comlink number.


	20. Chapter 20

Someone grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. Ardan’s yelp was smothered into a gloved palm over his mouth.

Whoever was holding him shoved him to the side. A door slid closed, blocking the light of the corridor, and a fainter, blueish one lit up, revealing the interior of a storeroom. He was slammed against the wall and coughed, all the wind knocked out of his lungs, the collar of his uniform squeezed to not quite a chokehold yet, but it was painful already.

“Griebs, tell me you didn’t do it.”

In the low light, he couldn’t connect the voice— _her_ voice—to the face scowling up at him, uncomfortably close.

He held up his free arm. “Listen, I—”

“You didn’t fucking do it.”

“I had no choice!”

Chenda narrowed her eyes. “You always have a choice.”

Ardan had the nonsensical impression it wasn’t to him she was talking. It scared him. _Neither of us is here now_. He shook his head, which did not serve to the purpose of clearing it but at least gave him a bit of extra grounding in reality. “Veers said she was going to have me arrested! By her people, the thought police!”

“He was bullshitting you, babe. Never imagined Iron Max could be subtle.” She let go of Ardan’s collar, aiming an index finger between his eyes. “Or that you could be so dumb!”

“How was I supposed to—”

They both turned to the door. The noise of footsteps that had crept at the margin of Ardan’s hearing range came very close, then farther and fainter. Had he not been propped to the wall, Ardan was sure he’d have collapsed to the floor, absolutely sure; he was familiar with that particular feebleness in his legs.

With the kind of slow and careful motion that serves to hide trembling hands, Chenda removed her helmet. Her hair stuck in wet dark locks to her forehead; sometimes he’d managed to make her sweat this much in bed, and out of habit he gently brushed her hair back, one lock at a time. Neither spoke. When he was finished, he pulled her in his arms.

Long seconds later she breathed into his ear, “The tapes. Do you have them with you?”

“In my quarters.” He gathered a scrap of courage. “Why?”

“I don’t think they’re safe there. I know better places to hide ‘em.”

“But… but you just said Veers was bullshitting me and the ISB is not on its way to get me!”

“That was,” she said flatly, slipping out of the embrace, “before you spilled the beans to Lieutenant Kijé. _Now_ they’ll want to make checks on you.”

He was tempted to bang his fists on the durasteel wall and let out inarticulate shouts until his throat became sore; academy-bred discipline kept his dignity strung together. “What do I do?”

“You listen to me.” Chenda put her helmet back on. “We mustn’t draw attention, so we better take separate routes. You go first.”

His skin crawled, then he realised she simply meant him to go to his quarters, and he nodded.

“And don’t panic, babe. I’ll be there faster’n you fear.”

“I am not afraid.” He didn’t expect her to believe him, but he did expect her to give him a reassurance kiss.

“Goes to show why you made it to officer, I guess.” Chenda pushed a tiny button on the side of the helmet and the faceplate slid into place. She turned and left, pausing an instant on the threshold to look both ways at the corridor. Then she was gone. The door closed again and he was alone in the half-light.

Ardan rubbed his eyes to block whatever tear might be leaking; even with gloves on he could feel the stubble on his cheeks. After his little talk with the general, he’d forgotten to shave. And he needed to piss, too. Time to get through the horrors of another day of campaign one small task at a time.

Back in his quarters, he left the door closed but unlocked, set to open as soon as someone stepped on the threshold. He had just moved the razor over to his chin, and his innards were tying up tighter and tighter as the shaving progressed and Chenda wasn’t here yet, when the door opened. Ardan stumbled out of the ‘fresher, clutching the razor tight in his fist.

Thank all the good stars it was her.

She snatched a data disc from Ardan’s bed. “Is this it?”

“Yes.” He watched the disc disappear in her trousers pocket. “You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to.” She didn’t answer, and he went on, fixing his stare on the bed he should be asleep or making love to her in, “It’s going to put you in danger.” _It’s my responsibility. I should keep it and see to it myself_.

“Ain’t the most dangerous thing I’ve done, babe. Not by a long shot.”

He shut his eyes when she tipped his chin down, but the kiss was brief and didn’t go any deeper than his lips. A whine of protest mounted in his throat as she walked away and didn’t even turn to wave him goodbye.

He felt neither safer nor lighter with the incriminating tapes removed from his possession. But he ordered his body to take a deep breath, finish shaving, apply instant cicatrising cream on the razor cuts, strip of boots and belt, unbutton the tunic, and lie down on the bed with the pillow laid over his face: if receiving a long-awaited transfer order from a shitty frontline post had taught him anything, it was that relief is frustratingly slow to kick in.

His stomach grumbled, for all that, on his way back from the bridge, he’d had the biggest cup of nutritive slur the cafeteria droid could serve as takeaway. It grumbled and gave him a cramp. Hunger, he didn’t have any, but he knew all too well that nervousness would soon make him retch unless he plopped something solid into the acid.

“One,” he counted against the pillow, “two, three,” and he leapt off the bed as if an alarm siren had called him to battle stations. He collected his uniform, put his boots back on, adjusted his cap and wobbly gait while he walked to the door.

It slid open when he was about four steps away from the threshold—in which stood a dark blue uniform.

“Uh,” said Lieutenant Kijé, “the door opened by itself. I… think the sensor is broken?”

They stared at each other in silence. A chilly rush swept over Ardan’s body, from the roots of his hair and radiating down his spine. His knees started to knock together.

“Well, never mind,” said Kijé. She tucked a strand of hair back beneath her cap and tuned her voice to inquiry mode, “I need to know where Trooper First Class Soult is. The reason is classified information.” True, she didn’t have the blank eyes of the interrogation specialists he’d seen at work on Firro and always avoided ever since. But fucking small comfort. _She knows. They have Chenda_.

“I don’t know where she is,” he blurted out. “And why should I? Stormtroopers are none of my responsibility. Ask her commanding officer.”

“She was seen exiting storeroom J-55 on Deck 10 five standard minutes after you did. I have a witness.”

He thought of the footsteps outside the storeroom door. Inhumanely louder, now. His heart thumped as much as them. “Who?”

“It’s not important!”

Kijé raising her voice sounded shrill like a child, and Ardan felt a bite of shame at having to make a conscious effort to keep his body from backing off.

“We know something is occurring between you and her.”

He flinched. Couldn’t help it. Already an admission. _I’m done for. I’m done for_.

“So, if you know where she is, tell me. Now!” The final, shouted word left her short of breath.

Ardan heard a male voice in the corridor, “What’s going on there?” Two faces—an olive drab uniform and a navy trooper’s all-blacks—peeked into the cabin.

“Nothing,” Ardan and Kijé answered at the same moment, in vastly different degrees of confidence. The navy officer—Lieutenant Windrider, loyalist fellow from Alderaan with the mien of a kicked tooka—and the soldier hesitated for an instant. Windrider nodded the soldier away, gave Ardan a sideways look, and left.

“Well?” Kijé urged him on, and Ardan gripped onto the cloth of his uniform at his side, where the blaster would hang in its holster if this were a combat zone. A place where no one would ask questions if a COMPNOR officer were killed in action, _what can you do, sir, stray blaster shots happen all the blasted time if you pass me the pun_.

“I don’t know where she is,” he spat out. “Now leave, before the entire darned deck starts making lewd assumptions.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She stomped into the cabin, the door shutting behind her. “And presently, I have no interest in it. Ah, there it is…” She all but leapt to the computer terminal and plugged her code cylinder into the jack.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Over her shoulder, Ardan caught a glimpse of fast-forwarding ship schematics. Navigation and technical crew corridors, air and water ducts, power cables, gun batteries, storage rooms, hangars, barracks, recreation areas.

“Come on, come on, you bastard,” Kijé muttered, it took him a heart-stopping fraction of second to realise she meant the words for the computer, “can’t you go quicker?”

“If that data search is what I think it is,” the well-informed, competent bridge officer overrode the terrified cornered womp-rat, “then it is going _amazingly_ fast, Lieutenant. I had no idea it could.” Most clearances on that shiny small thing inside the jack were on par with the admiral’s, after all. Just a step below Lord Vader’s. All that power bestowed upon an insufferable, barely qualified thought police snitch who didn’t even have the redeeming grace of well-rounded breasts. Watching her from behind, Ardan imagined his fists closing tight around her neck and squeezing—to snap the bones, not to suffocate. She wouldn’t have the time to cry for help. His hands were sweaty and cold, and he wiped his palms on his trousers before remembering he was wearing gloves.

Where could he hide away a corpse, in any case?

“Deck 57, Quadrant 9,” said Kijé, “okay, we’ve got this.” She wrenched the cylinder off the terminal, and the schematics disappeared from the screen. Ardan barely managed to steal a look at what must be a hangar bay.

She jumped off the chair and he had to sprint in her wake and grab her by the crook of an arm. “We’ve got this _who_?” he asked in a flat tone, unnaturally calm to his own ears.

“Lieutenant Commander, this is not—”

“Captain Ronnadam? The admiral? I am a loyal officer, and I have a right to know if I am under investigation.”

Kijé slanted him a puzzled look. “No, you don’t have any such right regarding a COMPNOR investigation during a state of war, regardless of whether you’re a civilian or military personnel. It’s high time you brush up on your knowledge of Imperial law.” She tried to wring her arm free, but Ardan squeezed until she yelped.

“Tell me what you want with Chenda,” he said very close to her face, “or I swear you won’t walk out of this room on your own legs.”

They both stared in silence at each other. The _Executor_ all around seemed to plummet down a gravity well, the lurch pushing Ardan’s guts up against his gritted teeth.

“Why should you know?” she hissed. But it was already a negotiation rather than an order or a threat.

Maybe, just maybe, he was not toast yet. “Because I love her, dammit. I won’t stand back to watch and do nothing if… if you…”

Kijé rolled her eyes. “Without even taking the rank divide into account, you met her yesterday for the first time!” His hand must have gone limp, for she pulled away from him in one tug. “Lieutenant Venka said he saw her push you into a storeroom—”

He didn’t listen to the rest, for all that he watched her mouth move and stop moving, her eyes take a questioning frown (“Well, are you coming along or not?”) then roll again. At last she stormed off of the cabin.

His uniform and the shirt below, he realised after a number of long, aching heartbeats spent gazing at the closed door, were drenched with sweat and he was trembling in the cool air of the spaceship.

Deck 57, Quadrant 9. Nothing remarkable there. Turbolaser batteries and the assigned hangar bay of a TIE interceptor squadron. He’d have no idea what Chenda would be doing on that deck. But it was a track, and he could follow it. Should do so. Warn her.

He staggered to the comm apparatus next to the computer terminal, set up a restricted call, and dialled her comlink number.

At the very first beep signalling the receiver was unavailable, he slammed the comm shut. Then brought down his fist on the console multiple times. An attempt to curse Lieutenant Venka— _And who is she?_ , fuck him to the ninth hell—resulted in a garbled, high-pitched noise without words. The pain in his punching hand finally bore through to his conscious brain. Holding his scraped raw fist to his chest, Ardan slumped back on the chair, eyes to the durasteel pipes on the ceiling.

Deck 57, Quadrant 9. He could run there and do something, anything. Be honourably apprehended and led to the brig by a party of navy troopers like a criminal, along with her. Be questioned by the sad old man Ronnadam, made to confess the blackmail. Put through extra quality time with the IT-O droid, just to be sure. Made to confess a dozen moments of doubts in the Emperor’s cause, until he begged them to tell him what they wanted to hear, just to make the blasted thing stop. Deck 57, Quadrant 9. The same would happen to her. Bile in the flavour of nutritive slur burned at the bottom of his gorge, and he swallowed to push it back in his stomach.

Deck 57, Quadrant 9, Deck 57, Quadrant 9. All to the ruin of his career, of everything good he’d built and cultivated after Firro. Deck 57, Quadrant 9. Stars, he needed a drink. And it was too cold in here to be the normal cold of a spaceship. He was shaking too hard, making the chair creak a little. _Another nervous breakdown. Great_. At least this time he wasn’t in the crowded mess hall of a Star Destroyer. How many credits must have it cost his parents to buy the captain’s silence, that time? How many would it cost to buy Piett’s, Veers’, Kijé’s, Ronnadam’s silence?

Deck 57, Quadrant 9. No need to buy Venka’s silence, let alone buy it with a promotion to a command far away: next time they met, he was going to kill him.

Ardan breathed deeply, but neither the cold went away nor the shaking stopped. Alright, he was not going to Deck 57. But he could make it to his bed and lie down. He tested a foot on the floor. He knew that lightness in the joints. No way.

So he hugged himself and stared at the comm, sometimes daring to stroke the keypad and recite Chenda’s comlink number under his breath, until the door hissed open.

“Lieutenant Commander Ardan, you have to come with us.”


	21. Chapter 21

By some miracle of the Force, or the sugar in his caf, Admiral (and Acting Captain of the _Executor_ ) Piett got all his paperwork done within the beginning of day cycle. He fell short of reserving the half hour of sleep he’d hoped to catch, but chances were he might squeeze in a nap or two throughout the day.

Lieutenant Kallic, the officer of the watch, snapped to attention as soon as Piett stepped on the bridge. A picture of well-trained, well-rested, well-dressed youth that gave him a brief sting of the envy mixed with irrational—which didn’t make it any less crushing—inferiority that had been the constant emotion throughout his first tour of duty on a Star Destroyer, away from Axxila.

The admiral shoved the sensation down the chute where it belonged. “At ease, Lieutenant, and good morning. Fleet status report.”

It was not good. Nothing that Piett didn’t know already, but knowledge didn’t make anything easier to stomach: damage, more extended and time-consuming repairs than expected, more damage, one suspected and two confirmed cases of suicide in the _Executor_ ’s TIE bomber ranks, “…and we are still waiting for the complete reports from the ships that have travelled on to Seswenna, sir. Permission to express a personal opinion?”

“Go on.”

“I think the figures will be artfully rounded down.”

 _You don’t say_. How young and naive Kallic must be to assume the greater military machine gave a damn if an overstressed pilot blasted their brains out?

“Shall I run additional controls on Death Squadron’s casualty toll and check for irregularities, sir?”

“Yes—” The datapad he was carrying under his arm beeped with a message notification. He gestured at Kallic to keep talking, and quickly checked the message sender’s name. While he appreciated Veers had not sought him over the comlink again, this was not the right moment. For anything he might want.

Kallic completed his report, Bespin’s sun lit up a ring at the edge of the plane, the admiral walked down in the crew pits to squint at monitors and issue the myriad of navigational orders he had been familiar with since his days as captain. With the difference that even Ozzel, most of the times, let him sleep a few hours more.

“Admiral,” Kallic said out of the blue, matter-of-factly but in a low voice, standing by him a little closer than the rules of personal space allowed, “From Captain Ronnadam.” He handed Piett a datapad.

 _Dear Admiral_ , blablabla, _disciplinary breach_ … _potential espionage threat concerning one of your bridge officers_ … _request to see you at once_.

He nodded at Kallic, hoping the lad understood how much he approved of the discreet announcement, and left the bridge with the instruction to contact him at any time when needed. On the way to Ronnadam’s office, a ten minutes’ walk plus lift ride, he received three calls. All for issues that would have been easily dealt with if a captain had been on the bridge. He knew it, the other officers knew it. Before stepping through the threshold, he switched off the comlink.

The door slid open at once, a fraction of second too quickly for a scanner to have acknowledged the admiral’s presence and given him clearance. Nobody walked in idly to the den of the chief thought policeman; so why bother keeping the door locked? It was a show of authority. And Ozzel had allowed it to happen.

“I assume you received my message, Admiral,” said Ronnadam, not bothering to rise from his seat behind the desk.

Piett sat down on the chair facing the ISB captain, before the latter gestured at him to help himself. “I did, and now I would like you to explain.”

At a tap of Ronnadam’s forefinger, a videoscreen activated on the desk.

Piett remained calm and expressionless on the outside, but inwardly he spat out curses. Ardan had sent that tape to the high planes, after all. Shit, shit, shit—but no, how did that have anything to do with espionage? He held in a sigh of relief when the video did not show the interior of Veers’ cabin. However, it showed Lieutenant Commander Ardan and Lieutenant Kijé, and relief had a short life.

“I am,” said Ronnadam once the video had stopped playing, “not quite sure what to make of all this, Admiral. Except for one thing—”

“Treason?”

Ronnadam stared in silence, either taken aback or weighing the hypothesis. It may well be both things. ISB goons were mass-produced with a built-in treason radar that could never be switched off. “How would you assess Lieutenant Commander Ardan’s and General Veers’ political commitment?”

Wonderful. An interrogation, masked as polite chat. “ _So far_ , Ardan has never given me any reason to doubt his allegiance, nor shown any sympathy for the Rebellion.”

Ronnadam’s watery blue eyes narrowed at the ‘so far’. Just as intended.

“As for Veers, he is a dyed-in-the-wool patriot, and never once bullied a subordinate. If I may offer an opinion, _Captain_ ,” a bit of emphasis on the ISB man’s lower rank, “he is not the one that should be put under scrutiny here.”

“Many Rebels managed to escape Hoth while his attack was underway, though. Including the entire Alliance High Command.”

 _Have_ you _ever led a ground assault? Or blockaded a planet?_ “Lord Vader would have made his displeasure clear to him the same way he did with Captain Needa, had he considered that a failure on Veers’ part. All the more if he had viewed it as an act of sabotage.”

“There is no difference between accident and malice, Admiral, as far as they bear the same results.”

The temperature in the office felt like it had dropped a few degrees. Some petty officers claimed it happened whenever Lord Vader used the Force on some foolish or unlucky sod; this time might well be a definitive proof it was not due to dark magic, but fear.

“Whose judgment do you doubt?” Piett asked quietly. “Mine, or Lord Vader’s?”

Ronnadam’s face remained blank, his features schooled into a droid-like unblinking immobility. “Under normal circumstances, I would have already issued an arrest warrant for both suspects.”

 _Of course you would have, you parasite_. Piett had heard his fair share of tales about ISB people taking over naval officers’ commands, bossing admirals around on their own flagships as if they were unruly cadets, in front of their entire crew. _This isn’t happening to me. Not on my ship_.

“But as you said, General Veers is a dyed-in-the-wool patriot. The Press Corps is already hard at work on broadcasting his victory to the citizens of the Empire.” Ronnadam blinked at last. The longer Piett studied him, the more fatigue lines at the corner of his eyes he noticed. “My superiors wouldn’t think it wise to deliver such a potential blow to morale now.”

And the propaganda corps would never shut up about all their hard work being thrown out of the airlock. “I’m glad we agree, Captain.” Piett put the vaguest hint of a smile over that sentence; Ronnadam did not return it.

The ISB officer went on, “Lieutenant Commander Ardan, however, must be questioned. Do you agree on that, too?”

“Absolutely.” If the lad got grilled, he’d reveal everything. Maybe, hopefully, this would bar him from an admiral’s rank forever. “It is of the utmost importance to see through this fishy affair.” But the scandal and whatever suspicion fuelled Ronnadam’s paranoia, not to mention what Lord Vader would think of the whole mess, would damn well toast Piett’s career too. “And I will deal with it personally.”

A puckered brow finally broke the mask. “It won’t be necessary; the ISB can handle—”

“So can the _navy_.” Make it a matter of soldierly pride. A plausible excuse, containing a grain of truth. “You will be kept informed, of course. But the first investigation belongs to me.”

“Lieutenant Kijé sent this evidence to me.”

“This alone does not decide the jurisdiction, as stated by articles 96 to 98 of the—”

“Sir,” Ronnadam leaned over the desk, “your behaviour could be interpreted as an attempt to cover up for your subordinate’s misconduct. Do you realise what consequences such an accusation might spell for you?”

“Since we are discussing consequences, do you believe the Navy will stand and watch if an admiral _whom Lord Vader hand-picked_ is accused of treason, with not a scrap of proof and in the midst of a high priority mission?”

Ronnadam stared, blinking, for a few seconds. His jaw set just the slightest bit tighter.

 _Here goes nothing_. Piett reminded himself to breathe, and look natural and at ease.

One centimetre at a time, Ronnadam sat back on the chair. He was the first to break eye contact, purportedly to browse a datapad in front of him. “There is this one Rebel prisoner, part of the Hoth batch—a Diathim, according to the scientific officer, though my subordinates are fond of calling her ‘Shiny’. Her physiology has shown a remarkable resistance to our interrogator droids.”

Was he trying to scare him? Piett almost rolled his eyes.

“But we will break her. It is only a matter of time.” Ronnadam’s voice dropped. “You have free rein until I’m done with her. I can do no more. I have superiors, too, you know.”

“Fine by me, Captain.” An actual smile broke out across Piett’s face. While he rose, Ronnadam made a last try, “One last thing, though, Admiral; are you sure you have the… expertise? Uprooting the weeds is what _we_ are trained for, and naval officers, even the traitorous ones, are trained for resisting in case of capture.”

“We are.” _Though it’s not a guarantee_. “But let me tell you a little story: when I was posted on Axxila, the anti-pirate flotilla I commanded was so cash-strapped and underequipped we couldn’t afford IT-Os. I carried out most of the interrogations myself; any species, any sort of Outer Rim scum. Would you care to guess the success rate?”

Ronnadam raised an eyebrow.

“ _Quite_ nearer to one hundred percent than that.” On the threshold, Piett turned and said, “Another thing: you may want to lock your door from now on. You never know who might be lurking.” He couldn’t resist nodding at the lieutenant standing in the corridor, who snapped to attention and did a remarkable job at appearing unfazed.

Ronnadam’s stare didn’t leave Piett until the door shut. A faint click and a red light on the keypad indicated it had just been locked from the inside.

The lieutenant caught up with the admiral’s pace towards the lifts. “Sir, General Veers sent me to find you.”

“Did he?” Piett fingered the comlink hooked to his belt and switched it on. He didn’t need to look to picture the small yellow light signalling unanswered calls. His heartbeat sped up, but he managed an effortless, entirely relaxed, perfectly innocent tone. “What is the matter?”

“He didn’t tell me, sir. But he told me to tell you that you have to go and see him in his office at once.”

The lieutenant hadn’t even finished speaking, and Piett’s comlink pinged. Son of a Hutt-buggering gun…

“Uhm, Admiral, sorry to bother,” said the man at the other end of the comm. “Chief Yinsi here.”

Piett gestured at the lieutenant, and at an ensign who was just reaching the same lift as them, to take the other elevator. “Yes, speak up.”

Yinsi didn’t until the lift doors had closed. “A moment, sir…” The light in the lift flickered. “Now we can talk.”

“I’m listening, but hurry up.”

“Well, I figured you might want to know this: there’s a security breach happening this very instant, through Lieutenant Kijé’s credentials.”

“What kind of security breach?”

“From the terminal in Lieutenant Commander Ardan’s quarters. Ship-wide search for a stormtrooper’s ident number.”

“TK-838.”

“How do you…? Wait, there’s a match.”

Piett slammed a fist on the stop button, and the lift shuddered to a halt. “Where?”

“Deck 57, Quadrant 9.”

He punched in the code to that deck. “Well done. Keep tracking that ID, and get a visual if you can. Should anything else happen, comm me.”

“Yessir. So—we are not going to the Alderaan Cemetery after all, are we?”

Piett mellowed his tone. “Rest assured we aren’t.”

Over the comm it wasn’t too clear, but the sound Yinsi made might have been a sigh of relief.

“Track Kijé’s and Ardan’s IDs as well.”

Typing noise. “Done and done, sir. Oh.”

“What?”

“According to the tracker, she’s heading there. Not Ardan. His mark is… hmm, not moving out of his quarters.”

He might have simply discarded the code cylinder, but then again, without the device he had few places to go to. “I’ll see to that. Keep me updated, won’t you?”

“Yessir, yes.”

Piett closed the comm, and immediately started another. He ordered a detail of troopers to arrest Ardan, and the security officer for Deck 57 to start a search for TK-838.

Then, in the privacy of the camera-fried lift, he leaned against the wall, tugged the collar of his uniform open wider, and forced himself to breathe evenly. Closing his eyes was out of the question, for all that they stung and burnt: he couldn’t afford to fall asleep now.

Maybe it would have been simpler to let Ardan become captain, damn Firmus Piett’s pride and integrity for good; he was bound to lose both someday. Better never to confront that snooty rich boy about the morality of bedding a stormtrooper. Never to let Veers buy him a drink.

He held his breath, in case the next exhalation turned into an undignified sob. Then he gave himself a slap, smoothed down his tunic and pinched his collar closed, in time for when the lift halted and the doors opened.

Quadrant 9, Yinsi had said. Piett made his way through the corridors at a brisk pace. His comlink beeped again. Bridge, no doubt. Kallic wondering where in blazes the admiral had vanished. With good reason. “Piett,” he snapped into the device.

“Yes, Admiral, I know it’s you.”

He swerved at the last moment to avoid a crash against an engineering officer, whose eyes were glued to a datapad.

“I take it not even Lieutenant Stratten managed to hunt you down?”

“General, this isn’t the moment for—”the recriminatory chatter came out pleading rather than piqued, and he cut it, “yes, that officer you sent to fetch me. I appreciate the gesture, but whatever it is that you want, it can wait.”

“I have been waiting one hour already, just to get you over the blasted comm!”

 _In that case, you must be well-prepared to wait another_. Piett made to press the on/off button.

“May I have a word in private?”

Of course there was technical personnel passing by the corridor, but they came and went; Piett sighed, and toggled down the microphone volume. “Yes.”

“Ardan tried to blackmail me for information. Same as he did to you.” Veers paused, not for dramatic effect. Piett caught a faint thumping that might be footsteps. “With the difference that I told him to bugger off.”

Piett froze in mid-step. _Keep walking. Don’t give anyone a reason to look at you_. “How… delicate.”

“Thank the stars you didn’t get angry.”

Piett’s reply was deader than the surface of a Base-Delta-Zeroed world, “I _am_ angry, you berk. This wasn’t what I told you to do. Now we are well and truly neck-deep in—”

Two flight officers passed near Piett. He had to clam up, return the salute, and give the senior of the pair a once-over: bloodshot eyes, a twitch at the corner of the mouth. _Notify the medbay. Have her second-in-command watch her_. Guilt poked at him for not shutting down the comm with Veers and warn the medics himself, for that was what a good captain, and a good admiral, should do.

“The best is yet to come, sir,” Veers quipped. Was he still under the effect of the grog, and not having a proper grasp on reality? “I told him you, me, and Kijé all know he stole her creds. And that she’d sicced the thought police on him. That got him the fright of a lifetime.” Veers started laughing, but something in Piett’s silence conveyed what the admiral was thinking about the affair, and the mirth died out in a half-cough, half-snort. “Any chance you can come over here? I could explain.”

Piett saw stormtroopers marching in column at the end of the corridor. The fast thump of their boots echoed across the passageways, and even Veers must have heard it over the comm. “What is going on, sir?”

“Haul your arse to Deck 57, Quadrant 9. Follow the blaster shots if you hear any.” Piett shut off the comm before the general could reply. Then he broke into a run to catch up with the soldiers.

If the ensign who led them was in any way surprised to see the admiral in person joining the hunt, she didn’t show it. “Sir, TK-838’s tracker points to a maintenance room,” she glanced at the datapad in her hands, “thirty metres from here and counting down.”

“The first thing a fugitive with a grain of sense does,” albeit granted, stormtroopers didn’t have the same reputation for cleverness as smugglers, “is remove everything that can get them tracked.”

The ensign was silent for a second, then barked an order for her squad to split: most of it fanned out into the secondary corridors, while four soldiers dashed forward to take position in front of a yellow-marked engineering room door.

One of them tilted his helmet towards the officers. “Permission to break through, ma’am…” The polarised lenses shifted towards the admiral. “…sir?”

Under normal circumstances, Piett would have let the ensign demonstrate her tactical skills. These weren’t normal circumstances. “Try opening the door first.”

“Yessir.”

Bless the stormtroopers’ generalised numbness to irony.

At a simple press of a button on the keypad, the door slid open. The soldiers leapt inside with blasters levelled, and the two officers stepped in behind them.

“Freeze!” called out one of the troopers.

Lieutenant Kijé was already as frozen as a tooka caught in a speeder’s headlights. A helmet an off-duty trooper might wear slipped off her hands and clanked to the floor.

“What are _you_ doing here, Lieutenant?”

Kijé blinked. “I… actually…” She glanced down at the helmet.

“Is that Trooper Soult’s?”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Were you with her?”

“No!” She bowed to pick up the helmet, and Piett instinctively raised a hand to prevent the stormtroopers from opening fire. Kijé didn’t seem to notice (thank the stars), and continued, “I followed the signal to here, and…” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“What to think anymore, _sir_.” Piett turned to the ensign. “Take your men and keep searching.”

“Yessir,” she said, and led the stormtroopers away, all military snap and the hint of a smirk that spelled out her thoughts: _up yours, thought police, I’ll show you how it’s done_.

“You may return to your quarters, Lieutenant.” Piett was already scanning the shelves of stacked material, making an effort to think like someone with something to hide. Something the size of a data disc. But he couldn’t begin the search until Kijé left. “It was not a suggestion. Go, now.”

“Sir, why are they searching for her? Those troopers’ weapons were set on kill, I saw it.” Kijé had the gall to grab him by an arm. The blush on her cheeks was too red to be foundation. “It just… It wasn’t her fault, sir.”

“Her fault for what?”

Dumbstruck gaping was the answer.

“You’ve known that stormtrooper for one day. Unless COMPNOR is truly all-knowing,” Piett gently pried her fingers off his forearm, “the hard evidence is a bit too scant to pass a character judgment.”

“She couldn’t have done anything bad, sir. She was kind to me…” Her eyes narrowed and slanted a look at the code cylinder in the pocket of her tunic.

Good on her for smartening up a bare minimum. _But now leave, dammit_. Piett was about to utter the order in full-on admiral mode, when a noise of blaster shots echoed in the distance.

He dashed past Kijé and down the corridor, pushing officers and crewmembers out of his way. The gunfire noises guided his steps to a T-junction where a few stormtroopers had taken position behind the corner of the wall. One raised his blaster and peered over into the corridor, only to drop to the floor with a seared helmet faceplate before his finger had even squeezed the trigger.

Of all the bucketheads to go rogue, it had to be one who could shoot.

He turned to the first junior officer who’d just rushed here, and bellowed at her to comm for reinforcements.

The stormtroopers ran forward, straight into a volley of full automatic fire that felled them like so many rumble-pins. But a whole fresh squad was barging in, and at their lead never was Piett happier to see General Iron Max Veers, grinning from ear to ear, with a holster strapped to his belt and a DL-22 drawn.


	22. Chapter 22

An aide walked into Veers’ office the instant the general finished strapping the holster to his belt. The blaster lay on the desk, already checked and found functional, oiled and loaded.

Veers holstered it and almost had to push the gawking lieutenant aside on his way out. “Emergency matter,” he said. “Do not comm me.” No time for explanations. Troopers, techs and officers stepped aside in the corridor as he strode to the nearest turbolift—hurry or not, it was undignified for a general to break into a run. And he trusted the admiral could keep the immediate trouble at bay himself, until the armoured division came to the rescue.

While the lift descended to Deck 57, he commed the security officer. The admiral, he was informed, had ordered a deck-wide search for a rogue stormtrooper. If the officer was surprised the general now demanded to lead the main search party, she knew better than to show it.

Veers found the troopers where she told him they would be. He’d just asked their sergeant for an assessment of the situation, when the NCO received word through his helmet comm that the fugitive had been spotted.

Blaster fire rumbled in the distance, through the corridors. Like a calling.

Veers drew his blaster and raised it high over his head. “Boys, with me!” He raced off into the corridors, following the noise, with the thump of stormtroopers’ boots behind him and that of his heart banging in his ribcage. If he pretended he was a decade younger, still a captain, this could almost be fun—no, he chided himself. There might be dead or wounded. And this was the fleet flagship, not some war-torn Outer Rim shithole. So much for not having a shootout on board.

The gunfire was getting louder, closer.

At last they were there. Veers smelled the ozone and scorched plastoid in the air before he saw the stormtroopers lying dead on the floor. Alive and shouting orders to a junior officer, there stood the admiral. The noise of incoming reinforcements made Piett look up. A smile Veers hadn’t noticed tugging up the corner of his mouth now broke into an inappropriate, beaming grin.

“Not a minute too soon, General.”

“Pleasantries can wait, sir.” But shit, he would’ve kissed him where they stood.

More blaster fire pulled him back to his battle senses. His boys had charged around the corner of the T-junction, and two bodies had joined the dead on the floor. One was twitching.

“Where does this corridor go?” he asked Piett over the din of guns.

“Interceptor hangar bay fifty meters down. That’s where I’d run to.”

“And you just called someone to cut her off that line of retreat, right?”

The stormtrooper sergeant shouted, “Take cover!”

Veers threw himself down, sweeping Piett along. Eyes closed, head down, hands over ears, and mouth open.

The blast rocked the floor; so close to the thermal detonator’s death radius, even durasteel rumbled and shook as if it were nothing more solid than dried mud bricks. Shit on him for not bringing his helmet and cuirass.

The heat wave rolled over him, but he knew the difference from when his uniform actually caught fire.

The air cooled off again—just in time for a second explosion. Farther away, down the corridor. He heard screams, muffled not so much in the distance as in the post-blast hearing loss.

He gave Piett a once-over; the admiral’s face had turned redder than its usual pastiness, but otherwise he was unharmed. For some reason, he’d stuck a knee high between Veers’ legs… Oh. Not a knee. “I’ll be back,” Veers said, all too aware he was promising more than he could keep, and sprinted into the blast-scorched corridor.

He jumped over the bodies and held his breath against the smoke for as long as he could. Time was short, his legs were good: the rogue stormtrooper was easy to spot through the smoke, a small grey-white form with a blaster in her arms. Veers skidded to a halt, aimed and fired twice.

The fugitive toppled over. Veers was sure he’d gotten her, but a volley of blaster fire zapped uncomfortably low over his head.

“Hold your fire, idiots!” he shouted, loud and clear despite the acrid smoke grating his throat and making his eyes water.

The shooting ceased at once.

The source of the friendly fire was a mixed bunch of stormies and navy troopers; the highest ranking among them, and therefore their commander, was a starfighter corps officer in his flight suit. He had the good sense to kick the wounded fugitive’s blaster out of her reach. Then he kicked her hard in the face. She groaned and curled up like a cold loth-cat. Her uniform was charred on the back of her right thigh and on her right shoulder, where the blaster bolts had hit her.

“None of that, Commander,” said Veers. “We need her in talking condition.”

“Apologies, sir. But, with due respect, she threw a thermal detonator at my second-in-command. It’s not fair she gets away without payback.” The pilot officer snapped to attention upon the admiral’s arrival, and Veers was spared further attempts at reining in the vac-head’s anger.

A small retinue of junior officers had joined Piett. Lieutenant Kijé was among them. She was carrying a helmet in her arms, and only the stars knew why she wasn’t wearing the damn thing. Veers glared at her, but she didn’t seem to notice: she peered forward and almost lunged to Trooper Soult on the floor, but froze after slanting a glance to the people around her.

“Get her up,” said Piett. Two marines hauled Soult to her feet; she hissed as her wounded shoulder bore the brunt of the pull. The left side of her face was smeared with blood. That flight officer’s boot had made a fine mess; Veers didn’t doubt the man had targeted the soft eyeball rather than simply hit the cheekbone.

Piett checked the pockets of her uniform, then frisked her up and down. It was the first time Veers ever saw an admiral do a cop’s work, but Piett seemed like he’d done it before. It bode well for the next time they undressed each other… He averted his gaze. To distract his brain from its own filth, he locked the blaster and briskly put it back inside the holster.

Meanwhile, Kijé cleared her throat. “Admiral—”

“Not now.” A bit of ripping along the front seam of Soult’s uniform revealed an inner pocket, and Piett pulled a data disc out of it. “Take her to the brig.” He sounded the closest approximation of cheerful it was decent for an admiral to display in public, though he swallowed it all back to ask the flight officer for a damage assessment. The data disc disappeared into the pocket of his trousers.

Soult flashed a bloody smile at Kijé. “Hope I won’t look too bad in the Holonet news.” She flopped in the marines’ arms as they dragged her away, but at the last moment she looked over her shoulder and said in a hoarse voice, “If you see Griebs, tell him I never faked it!” One of the marines struck her in the back of the head.

Silly thing to worry about as it was, Veers stole a glance at Miss Propaganda and whatever camera she might have up and recording. None in sight. But the mixture of demoralisation and betrayal was so evident from her expression that a billboard on a Coruscant street couldn’t have advertised it more clearly. Sweat beaded her forehead, and either today was a bad make-up day, or there were some impressively dark circles under her eyes.

“Lieutenant,” he said. His command voice worked the usual magic, and Kijé flinched out of the shock. At least a bit. “Are you hurt? Deafened? Do you hear me well?”

“Of course I do, sir. What was that thing the admiral…?”

“Stolen intelligence,” spoke up the admiral himself, “what else?” He was a picture of naval smugness: hands behind straight back, the slightest hint of a smirk, no visible rising of the lower-deck cannon… just a bit of bulging, really, that might be a fold of the clothing.

“But why, sir?”

“A stormtrooper steals classified documents, tries to sneak her way into a hangar bay containing space-worthy vessels, and kills Imperial personnel trying to stop her. What does all of this tell you, Lieutenant?”

Kijé just clutched the helmet tighter to her chest.

“General, if you please?”

“Deserter.” Veers couldn’t find it in himself to act as smug as the admiral. A traitor in the ranks of his troops was nothing to get smug about. The non-coms and officers in her company would have to answer for that, too. “She was part of the ground attack force on Hoth.” He glared back at the corridor, where techs were already spraying coolant over the scorched durasteel and hauling corpses on hovergurneys. “This is like spitting on the grave of her fallen comrades.”

“Good turn of phrase.” Piett turned again to Kijé, “You should write that down in your press reports, Lieutenant. Which I’m sure you need to turn in _yesterday_ , don’t you?”

Kijé blinked and turned so pale Veers readied himself to catch her if she fainted. “Has… has Chief Kastle complained to you because I’m late with my reports?”

“With your reports, _sir_ ,” Veers corrected her between his teeth. How did people like this sneak their way into the military? In the officer corps, even? How, in the name of the Force?

“Sir,” she added mechanically.

 “He hasn’t.” In an extraordinary display of mercy, the admiral granted her the time to draw a sigh of relief. “If you don’t want that to happen, though, get back to your station and resume work.”

“…Yes, sir.”

That thin thread of voice was the last straw. Veers called up two marines, and ordered them to escort Kijé to the medbay first, then to her quarters. Unless the medical officer—“You get the medical officer on duty to see her, not a clanker, is that clear?”—said she needed to stay in the infirmary. (“In which case, yes, you two are going to stick around.”)

The marines, a man and a woman, glanced in the admiral’s direction before saying yessir in unison and flanking Kijé. Still holding the helmet, this time she remembered to salute properly before limping away down an undamaged branch of the corridor.

Veers watched her go, alert to he wasn’t sure what. When he turned, he found Piett giving him a pointed look. He shrugged. “What can you do, sir, I’m growing softer with age.”

Piett narrowed his eyes, as if sizing up an enemy ship over the targeting comp to decide whether it was worth blasting. In the end, he smiled. The kind of polite smile that might prelude to ordering ‘open fire’. “But not soft where it matters, luckily.”

It took Veers a great part of his battle-tempered self-control to keep a serious face. On the subject of things that weren’t soft… “I am going on a surprise inspection to the heavy transports bay. Care to join me, Admiral?”

“I don’t recall authorising this inspection of yours.”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise, in that case.”

Veers found himself in the grid of the targeting comp again. He didn’t feel ill at ease, though; the first time he’d asked out Eliana on a date had been much more embarrassing.

“Where?” Piett asked at last. He nodded when Veers told him the holding bay was just one deck down. “So this is why you happened to be here, in the right place at the right time.” He nodded at Veers’ blaster—both the DL-22 and the _other model_.

“Indeed, sir.”

After issuing a set of clean-up orders to the deck officers, Piett went so far as to lead their little inspection party. “Trust me, General, I know this ship like the back of my hand; it’s a shorter walk this way.”

During that short walk, and a ride in a crowded turbolift, neither of them spoke. Piett put on his best aura of command, and it was infectious—Veers found himself straightening his back as he trailed behind the admiral.

In the lift, shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the wall, and the junior officers discreetly trying to make themselves small in the higher-ups’ presence (had he ever done that in his lieutenant days?), Veers felt a groping and pinching touch to his arse. He drew in a sharp breath, and obdurately kept his eyes on the elevator’s control panel. Better not to draw attention.

Hell, the blasted sailor must have counted on him to remain cool, calm and collected. Veers supposed he ought to be flattered by the display of trust. It was an easy fight to keep his breathing even and quiet as Piett rubbed circles over his tailbone.

Unless…

Unless that filthy-minded sailor _wanted_ him to be difficult to fluster. For the zest of making him fall apart.

A hot shiver ran up his spine, from where Piett was fondling him. The crotch of his trousers was starting to feel snug.

The lift door slid open, and the junior officers parted to let them pass. Proper protocol be damned, Veers had been far too compliant with the Navy already; he stomped forward first. Shoulders back, chin up, ignore the bothersome sensation inside your pants. Piett had to quicken his own pace to keep up with the bigger man’s stride. Veers avoided all eye contact, and all small talk: the corridors here were never empty.

He knew from the beginning that the surprise part of his inspection was going to be short-lived. When he had been a junior officer (better not to count how many years ago), it was considered polite to comm whoever was on shift and warn them about senior officers showing up unannounced.

Indeed, discussing AT-AT design flaws with one of the chief technicians in the holding bay dissolved the burgeoning boner. “One grenade, sir. One!” The tech peppered the sentence with a swear word in some Outer Rim language Veers had no wish to know, but Piett evidently already was familiar with, as it made him raise his eyebrows in a split second of unguarded surprise. The tech ranted on, “How in the nine wet hells does one grenade knock down a walker?”

“I stand by what I wrote in the after-action report,” Veers replied. “The Rebels must have started modifying their standard concussion grenades. It wouldn’t be unheard of.”

“I believe so, sir.” The tech’s soot-rimmed eyes darted to the admiral, and back to the familiar sight of the general. “If we could go back to Hoth and run a few screenings on the wreckage of Blizzard 4, I could tell. I’m sure I could, sir.”

There hadn’t been the time even to pick up all the corpses. Of Blizzard 4’s commander, Colonel Starck, not a charred scrap of uniform remained. Veers clenched his fists. And this had been a victory.

“We cannot fly back to Hoth just to analyse debris,” Piett interjected mournfully. “You and your team will have to rely on your own intuition. If you do have any input, please send a note to General Veers and myself. We’ll make sure the Engineering Corps high command listens.”

The tech beamed. “Yes, sir, yes.”

She was dismissed. Veers and Piett found themselves alone on the catwalk that led to the cockpit of good old Blizzard 1, overlooking the hangar floor twenty meters down. “You’re good at making yourself liked,” Veers said. “Pity I’ve been trying for years to tell Engineering what is wrong with these darlings,” Veers reached out to pat the AT-AT’s durasteel plating. It smelled of fresh varnish over blaster scorches. “They’ve never listened.”

“In my experience, the most probable reaction is that they’ll cut even more corners. But soldiers need hope.”

Veers grunted in agreement. “On the topic of listening, I’m sorry I made you angry. For taking the initiative—what I told Ardan this morning, I mean.”

Piett went a little stiff in his shoulders, it was almost invisible.

Veers gazed back to the walker. It was ridiculous how raptly he was staring at him, if he was able to notice such fine movements. “I know you had a plan of your own for dealing with him. I think.” He just couldn’t resist that jab. “Where are you going?” he asked as Piett started down the catwalk. No reply. He had no choice but follow him into the cockpit of Blizzard 1.

All of a sudden he felt self-conscious, stopping on the entrance hatch and watching Piett contemplate the steering instrumentation and the comm console. Piett ran a hand over the latter, and it beat Veers what could be wrong with it that the admiral had noticed.

_Calm down, soldier. You’re not the one being inspected._

“Would you mind closing that hatch?”

Veers stepped in and pressed the button on the control panel, setting it to lock. The hatch hissed into place with a metallic clang. Was that his imagination or did it sound louder than usual?

Piett turned his back to the comm console, leaning against it. Sometime while Veers wasn’t looking, his gloves and hat had slipped off and formed an orderly stack on the counter of the console. Everything that needed to be said, Piett expressed it through one narrow-eyed look of stark naked lust.

_Oh._

The place had grown a small black hole right there over the holoprojector, gravity pulling at Veers imperiously.

He’d already moved a step forward when he ground to a halt. The heels of his boots clicked like gunshots.

Piett frowned. “General, neither you nor especially I have time for modesty.”

“Modesty? Not a chance in the universe, sailor. You like me a bit rough, and I like you a bit desperate.” With deliberate slowness, Veers unhooked the holster from his belt and went to put down the blaster on the pilot’s seat. Slow, slow steps. Enjoying the clatter of his boots on the floor. Taking the time to verify all the power to the navigation console was turned off. And the time to remove his cap, belt, and gloves, folded next to the blaster harness.

The admiral didn’t make a sound; when Veers faced him again, he was met with a fierce glower. _So who’s falling apart now, sailor?_

The instant he was within range, Piett grabbed the front of his uniform and pulled him into a kiss. Veers wrapped his arms hard around the smaller man, and heard—or rather felt—him gasp into his mouth. Good. He tilted his head so that his tongue could reach deeper. At the same time he bunched up Piett’s tunic to the belt, and drew a hand to the front of his trousers. What he palmed there made him hum in appreciation. _And I thought I was the impatient one._

Piett whimpered. Veers let him carry on with that delightful sound for a few encores, then freed his mouth.

“Please, Max, not like that… not now. I have… have to go back to the bridge later.”

“No bending you over this comm console…” Veers covered his neck with kisses. “…and showing you Wild Space?”

Piett treated him to another whimper, and buried his face into Veers’ shoulder. It would have seemed tender, had he not at the same time given a firm squeeze to Veers’ groin.

“Son of a—” Veers finished the sentence in a moan of his own. Fuck, his knees were trembling. He ground his hips against Piett’s. The smaller man had to brace himself against the edge of the console.

“I have a better idea,” Piett breathed into his ear.

Veers pulled back a little, sliding down his hands to return the groping favour on the other man’s arse. Just in case that might make him change his mind regarding a rough standing fuck over the console. “I’m listening.”

“Take off your shirt.”

“I already like this idea.” He limped around the console to the pilot’s seat and whipped off his tunic, then the shirt underneath, hanging both to the back of the seat. His skin crawled in the cold recycled air, but he didn’t mind the freedom of being half-naked now. Throughout the undressing procedure, he took care to look Piett in the eyes. The sailor was already panting, in a discreet way, silent and with his mouth shut; there was no mistaking how his chest heaved, though.

Veers stood with his legs apart and started undoing the zip of his trousers.

“No need for that.”

“Sorry?”

Piett drew in breath and steadied his voice. “Keep those on, General. I don’t want you to make a mess of your walker and, most of all, my uniform.”

“Since when is sex _not_ a mess?”

“I told you, I need to go back to the bridge afterwards. And I believe we both know,” Piett arched an eyebrow, “how visible some stains are on Imperial grey.”

Veers waved a hand. “Fine, fine. What do you have in that gutter mind of yours?”

“Lie down.”

He stared down at the durasteel grating. “Here?”

“Here.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Veers sat down on the floor and lowered his bare upper body, inch by inch. Despite the precaution, the cold metal made him mutter a curse. The floor reeked of sanitising product; chlorine on metal, sterile, befitting an infirmary. It made his nose itch. AT-AT interiors felt more liveable after many soldiers had been breathing in them for a while.

His own breath hitched when Piett kneeled over him, Veers’ left thigh between his knees. Both his hands, small and warm and smooth, rubbed hard up the bigger man’s abdomen. Veers contracted his muscles and closed his eyes. His skin turned inside out with chill and desire, and there was nothing he could do to keep himself from shaking. As if he even wanted to.

Without seeing it, he felt the motion of the body over him, the other man’s erection poking at the undefended flesh above his hip. Next came a wet, sucking kiss to his jugular notch. Veers’ nostrils filled with the sharp, exhilarating smell of live skin, and a tang of Navy-issue aftershave. His head went dizzy, and he let himself melt on the floor with a sigh.

Piett mumbled questioningly, still tonguing and nipping gently.

“I’m getting bored, sailor,” he lied. “You can do better than this to me.” He brought a hand through Piett’s hair—thicker than it appeared, good for pulling.

Teeth pinched his left clavicle, and pinched hard.

“What in blazes—”

After the teeth, lips. Tongue. Moving to the hollow under his trapezius. The bite there was harder. He brought his arms around Piett again, caressing through the synthwool and into his hair, the way he recalled made Eliana squirm and giggle in delight.

The sailor carried on kissing and biting undaunted, and kissing and biting again, in a downward arc of sweet pain along the side of Veers’ pectoral. He gently pushed the bigger man’s arm aside and pinned it to the floor to get a clear field.

“Is this payback, Firmus? The… the best you can think of? Leaving me a bruised mess like I—”

The bite got him on that one sensitive spot, a few centimetres to the outer side of his nipple. He slammed his head back, gasping, but the knock on the durasteel barely registered as painful.

Piett didn’t stop to let him recover. He ran his teeth lightly over Veers’ serratus anterior notch by notch, warm breath, warm wet lips. Then teeth sank in, lips sucked, and it bloody hurt to maintain control and keep his legs from thrashing. His breath had grown ragged. In the mercilessly cool air, he felt drool trickle down his jaw from the corner of his mouth.

The precarious balance tumbled to the ninth hell when Piett, still paying attention to his red zone, brought a hand to the opposite one on the right side of Veers’ chest. It stroked the soft carpet of hair there at first, and then—sweet stars, the sailor used nails on the skin.

Everything went a deeper black than it should have been, even with closed eyes. Veers was intermittently aware that the far-off whine he was hearing was his own voice; his right foot, tapping hard on the floor, produced a loud thump that made the touching and biting freeze for an agonising second.

Shit, he was so out of practice with this whole deal. He forced himself awake with a groan, half-sitting propped on his left elbow and tugging Piett away by the hair. The sailor regarded him with a pout, then his flushed face relaxed into a smug smile. “Enjoying yourself so far, General?”

He wanted so badly to say yes, beg him to carry on and not stop. But that wasn’t how a general worthy of his rank bars surrendered. He gathered a larger fistful of the other man’s hair in his hand, to steady his grip; Piett let him, but bent his head a little and kissed Veers’ forearm, then gave it a nip with his canine teeth. An expert, pointed little bite, that caught skin into a small flap rather than crash ineffectually against the hard muscle.

Veers forced himself to smirk. “I didn’t even feel that.” His voice was hoarser and breathier than he’d expected.

Without unsealing his mouth from Veers’ arm, Piett snorted. He pried the big, suddenly limp-fingered hand off his hair and drew his teeth in a swift line up to Veers’ wrist.

_What in blazes—_

Just the tickle of breath there made Veers arch his neck and hiss. The cold tip of Piett’s nose and his warm lips brushed the thin skin, followed by bites so hard they could be meant for wounding.

Veers forgot himself, where he was, the leftover shame, all up in flames with a bucking of his hips and a ragged cry. He sank back wheezing on the floor. It took several pounding heartbeats before there was enough blood in his head again for his vision to refocus.

He found Piett kneeling frozen into place, watching him with eyes wide open.

Veers cleared his throat. “That… that was new to me, too.” His wife had never taken advantage of his wrists—neither he nor she had known they were a chink in his armour, for that matter. But it gave him a stab to think maybe he just didn’t remember.

“Do you want me to—”

“Go on, for bloody fuck’s sake.”

The admiral disappeared from under the uniform; there was no way in the universe the savage grin that Piett beamed him, before self-control kicked back in, was decent for an officer of his rank during active service. So much for _a bit_ desperate.

Veers clenched his jaw and tried in vain to stop shaking. _If there’s a desperate one here, Maximilian, it’s you._

To his surprise, chagrin, dread, and shameful curiosity, Piett put his arm back down on the cold floor, without even a last kiss. To Veers’ questioning (he hoped it was questioning and not outright begging) look, he replied, “This is just a reconnaissance flight, General. Don’t be afraid.”

“ _Afraid_? Are you fucking serious—”

Piett struck before the phrase had died out on Veers’ lips. The area under the solar plexus was the new theatre of operations. Straight down the centre line of his abdomen, stopping at the trousers waistband. Piett’s teeth caught fabric and skin together, atrociously close to the constricted lump between his legs.

“Go on, damn you, go on.” Why wasn’t he unzipping his trousers yet? Veers grunted and raised a hand to see to that himself, when the beep of a comlink filled the cockpit.

“It’s yours,” Piett said over the noise. “Take the comm.”

“What?”

“Take it.” He levelled hard, serious eyes on Veers. “That’s an order.”

The general cursed a blue streak, but fished the device out of his pocket and activated it. “Veers.”

“Sir, Colonel Covell here,” croaked the voice of his staff officer. It’d sounded gravelly since the battle. The Hoth chill had done no good to his old throat wound. “Some security officer just sent in an after-action report claiming you were involved in a shootout on Deck 57. I’m not quite sure what I should make of this gibberish…”

Veers didn’t hear the rest of the sentence: Piett was trailing kisses just above his waistband, while prodding and rubbing his ventral artillery between both palms.

“…Sir, are you there? Sir?”

Veers only noticed the question because the colonel had raised his voice. “Yes,” he spat out through gritted teeth. “I don’t have much time now—” Trying to speak was a mistake. He clammed up and held his breath before it all liquefied into a tell-tale squeal.

Piett laughed quietly, and Veers shot him what he hadn’t much hope was a glare. The bastard didn’t bother to even look up. Just kept on kissing and nibbling, in a section of right flank too close for comfort to the bacta patch.

“Sir? Sir?”

“I’m in the middle of an inspection now.” Pause, breathe—what the fuck was the damned sailor doing? He watched him blow a heavy, hot breath over the patch. Then kiss there. Veers felt teeth through the gauze, over the almost-cicatrised remnants of the wound underneath. It didn’t hurt but it got close. Veers didn’t have the presence of mind to repress a groan. The comlink nearly slipped out of his grip, and Covell kept calling, “Sir? General? What was that?”

“I… just… shut my finger in a door.”

Piett laughed a bit louder.

“I didn’t hear any door closing, sir,” said Covell, “with all due respect.”

Enough was enough. With his free hand, Veers grabbed Piett by the hair and pushed him away. He realised how bad an idea it was when Piett turned his head so that his lips were pressed on the other man’s wrist.

“No, wait,” Veers hissed.

“Wait for what, sir?” Covell asked, the stern voice of cool professionalism, not a hint of impatience or curiosity.

Piett went down with a sucking kiss. Teeth stung amidst the soft parts, lips and tongue. Veers writhed as if he’d been electrocuted, let out a howl and had to jerk back his hand and slam it over his mouth to stanch the noise.

The silence, only broken by his muffled panting, hung so heavy he thought he’d accidentally switched off the comlink. But Covell spoke up again, “Now I heard it, sir. Another finger, I suppose?”

Veers cleared his throat. It didn’t help much. But at least Piett had paused; as in battle, exploiting that minimal advantage made the difference between survival and death. “Yes. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“I understand, sir.” If Covell _really_ understood, Veers might as well shoot his brains out in shame. “I’ll be waiting, but I respectfully remind you the matter is time-sensitive, sir.” A merciful click cut the comm.

“So you dropped everything you were busy with to run to my rescue?” Piett had the gall to ask. “What shipments was he even referring to?”

“Fuck if I was listening!” Veers sprang up to sit, and seized Piett by the collar of his uniform. “You’ll pay for that, sailor,” he snarled, close enough they could’ve kissed. “You won’t be walking for a month after I’m done with you.”

“I hope you’ll try, General.” Piett mashed his wide-open mouth to Veers’. So open, an invitation, the tactical advantage to exploit…

Before Veers could slip his tongue in, all air was sucked out of his mouth. His cheeks caved in and his lips stuck so tightly to the other man’s it hurt. He shivered.

Piett released him one millimetre at a time. The squelching noise echoed in the cockpit, out of place and utterly indecent. Damn, he should feel bad for defiling his favourite workplace, but Veers couldn’t care less. He slid his hands down to Piett’s hips.

The admiral rose to his feet and said, “Another time, though.”

“Now.”

“Impossible, General.”

“I got you out of the lurch, sailor. You owe me this.”

“Max—”

“ _Now_.” He groped under the front edge of Piett’s uniform, with a cruel grin. “Come on. You want it as much as I do.”

Piett stepped aside to the comm console, where he brushed non-existent dust off his cap. Amazing he could stand so straight and keep the tremor in his legs barely visible. “We all want this war to end, too.” He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. “Wanting is never enough. But we will be a small step closer to it if you go back to your work, General.”

“Quit the political officer charade! This was your idea, Firmus.” He grabbed onto the corner of the console and hauled himself to his feet. “Are you too lily-livered to finish what you started?”

“I wouldn’t have started at all if I’d known you were busy.” Piett slipped on a glove. “Don’t you dare shift the blame on me.” When he made to fetch the other, Veers slammed his right hand down and pinned Piett’s to the console.

They glared daggers at each other for several seconds.

“Who did you ol’ barmpot jus’ call lily-livered?”

Veers lunged behind Piett, spinning him ‘round at the same time so that they stood chest-to-back and the sailor was sandwiched between him and the console again.

Unzipping and yanking down trousers and pants was a hurried, rough-handed business. He rubbed hard against the other man, who had to stand on his toes to meet the thrusts. Piett squirmed into the hold, the back of his scalp brushing against Veers’ skin. But he didn’t say it hurt, or that he wanted it slower. No time for pleasantries anyway.

Veers kissed his way through the short hair, inhaling deep the scent of salty sweat, long-worn synthwool, the chemical hint of military soap. The hair thinned and gave way to bare skin, and he kissed harder there. Piett sobbed a curse and made a start as if to hop over the console. “Do—do it again.”

It would have been fair if Veers had dragged it out, until the order melted into a supplication. Well, no time for pleasantries and no time for revenge. He rolled his eyes and complied. Again and again. Until the back of Piett’s neck had turned crimson. Then he shoved him down, bent at a right angle over the console.

The once proud admiral was quivering like someone naked on Hoth, grasping onto the console with one hand, reaching out to touch himself with the other. The sight was so heady as to minimise the disappointment of all humping and no plunging.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you.” Veers was smirking as he said that.

Piett didn’t answer. It was easy for him to pretend he was distracted with pumping his cock. Veers gripped him hard by the shoulders—such scrawny and frail bones in his big hands, _so good_ —and thrust his hips angrily between the other man’s thighs, hitting his exposed entrance for the hell of making it clear he could break through, had he wished to.

Judging by how progressively squealier Piett got at every stab, he would have been happy to dump caution out the airlock and let himself be ploughed stupid.

Veers’ anger didn’t last long. Couldn’t compete against the dizzying sensation of his blood-thick rod chafing on naked flesh. He sucked his lolling tongue back behind his teeth, and slowed down his rhythm, savouring another body’s warmth that engulfed his most sensitive part, the noises—

“What’re you soft-headed berk doin’?” Piett strained his neck to glare over his left shoulder. “I’m almost there. Get movin’!”

“Say please.”

He gritted his teeth, then bit onto the back of Veers’ hand.

 _Son of a Hutt!_ Veers gave a shove so hard his knees banged on the console. He didn’t stop, not even for the pain.

It took just a few such thrusts until Piett went rigid with a raucous noise, then sank onto the console as if his skeleton had dissolved into the burning flesh. The utter defencelessness threw Veers over the edge. He bucked over the small body under him and came hard, half screaming half laughing.

“Blast, you’re noisy,” Piett susurrated. “What if someone heard?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” And surely Eliana had been joking, the morning after their wedding night, when she said the neighbours had told her they were worried someone was getting murdered in her apartment. Surely. “Are you alright?” Veers leaned over and kissed his sweat-soaked temple.

“More than I expected.” He sounded dreamy. Then the admiral re-entered active service, “Now let me stand up, if you don’t mind. We’ll need something to clean up. The first aid kit—there must be tissues or bandages there.”

Nobody was looking, so Veers didn’t bother to hide the stagger, a combination of post-coital weakness and cumbersome trousers still down to his knees. He made the short trip to the first aid case on the wall and back, bringing tissues for both. “I’ll have it reported as a supply theft,” he jested once the stains were wiped off and they were both clothed again. “Or leave it as an unreported supply theft. It happens all the time.”

“Isn’t your division the record holder for lowest rate of such criminal offences in the entire Army?” Balled up dirty tissue between two fingers of his gloved hand, Piett looked around for a place to throw it.

Veers motioned to follow him to the circular door of the walker’s neck. “Troops hold. There’s always some piece of garbage left. The cleaners won’t notice two extra used hankies.”

“Are you admitting your glorified soldiers leave garbage in _your_ AT-AT’s hold?”

“Spare me the moralism! Soldiers leave garbage wherever they go—”

A comlink chirp, again. This time Piett’s.

The admiral sighed, and unhooked the thing off his belt. It was one of his junior officers, politely asking the admiral where in the seven fucking hells he’d disappeared.

Veers crossed his arms and leaned against the plastoid rings wall of the neck corridor, enjoying the spectacle as Piett dished out sabacc-faced excuses and, for some reason, patted a pocket of his trousers, then the other. He went pale, and hesitated in the middle of the navigation order he was issuing to the lieutenant. Then, picking up the conversation again with no apparent effort, he leapt to the comm console and snatched a small metal object off the ground.

“…and I will be back in minutes.” He closed the comm, and sighed.

“Anything I can help with, Admiral?”

“You already have.” He finished dressing—cap and missing glove. But his belt was a bit misaligned, and Veers stepped forward to tug it until the buckle was perfectly centred.

“On Carida, they made us wear a weighted-up one if we wore the belt askew,” he explained. As if apologising, even if it wasn’t the case and it would be stupid anyway.

“Thank you, General.”

Stars, but he liked it so much more when he used his first name. When had it even been the last time someone had called him Max…? He repressed the thought.

With just a goodbye kiss before Veers unlocked the cockpit access hatch, the admiral and the general straightened up their backs, put on their martial face, and marched off each to his business.


	23. Chapter 23

“Hah, Lieutenant Kijé, welcome back!” Major Sauris waved in salutation the chart she’d been reading. “Should I begin to suspect you’ve developed a crush on me?”

Kijé wished to pull the two marines at her side in front of her, like living shields.

“I’m a tad old for you. But if it’s in the power of medical science to fix whatever problem I owe your visit to, I’m happy to help.” She didn’t seem to mind the marines; Kijé was too tired to think up overblown reasons why the medical officer might be playing daft as a Gungan. Indeed, she was too tired to stand. Not long after they had left the presence of the general and the admiral, she’d clung to the strong arm of a marine—the woman—for support.

Sauris pointed the chart towards a bed. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Kijé would have loved to walk there on her own, but it was the marines who dragged her to lie down.

Sauris’ joviality darkened as soon as she viewed Kijé’s updated medical record on her datapad. “Some people in the MedCorps should stick to putting exhausted Wookiee slaves to sleep, I swear.”

Whatever stuff Sauris injected her with, it made Kijé sleep for what the orderly later told her had been one hour. The marines were standing on watch at the foot of the bed. Their orders didn’t include following Kijé to her quarters, and she slogged her way there alone. She wasn’t sure she liked it. The corridors seemed wider now, and at every turn she held her breath waiting for a detonation.

The only thing that kept her heartbeat steady and numbed the dread was the medicine Sauris had given her, she knew. It was like having a cool blanket wrapped around her head, blocking out the brunt of her thoughts. But she could feel them swimming in the dark waters at the back of her mind, like dianogas in a sewer.

She was glad when an anonymous petty officer stepped into the turbolift with her. He didn’t gaze up for an instant from the datapad he was reading, but it comforted Kijé, who stood at the other end of the cabin, to have his presence there throughout the ride.

Then the lift slowed, and he glanced at her. “Is this your stop?”

Rage poked through the wall of chemical numbness. “It is none of your concern, and this information is classified.” _Why would you want to know? Are you planning a treason too?_

“Apologies, Lieutenant, ma’am.”

The door slid open; while stepping out of the lift, Kijé overheard him mutter something about the ‘blasted thought police’. She glared over her shoulder, but the petty officer was just reading his datapad. The lift resumed its run. Kijé blinked at the closed durasteel door and the bright keypad of the lift control panel. Business went on as usual. Everything was in order. Had she heard the petty officer speak, or was it her imagination? Dammit.

It was a good thing she hadn’t gotten a clear look at his face; less material for her brain to obsess over on the brief walk to her quarters.

Inside, she found Sixtee standing frozen, his torso half-slumped, like she’d left him. Bethan greeted her with all the pleasantly artificial warmth of her AI circuits, but Kijé’s heart jumped at the blinking red light on the comm: unanswered recorded messages, and a lot of them.

“Bethan, are all the messages in the answercomm from the Press Corps?”

“ _Seventeen messages were sent by Chief Alton Kastle_ —”

Double dammit.

“ _…and one by Colonel Covell, ma’am._ ”

“Who?”

One of the secondary screens lit up to the personal file of a square-jawed surly officer. “ _Colonel Freja Covell. Current chief of General Veers’ staff, recipient of the Distinguished Medal of Honour for his pivotal role in the subjugation of Florrum—_ ”

The computer rambled on listing battle honours. Kijé slid herself onto her seat, rubbing her temples and studying the screen.

Except for a darker complexion and the handlebar moustache, on grounds of the frown alone the man in the ID picture could have been undistinguishable from his commander.

It was either this man or Chief Kastle that would have her head on a platter. Kijé stared and stared until she could hold the service record picture’s scowl. _See, Annice? It’s not difficult. You can do this_. After a few minutes of dithering over whether to use the screen or the holoprojector, she ordered Bethan to play Covell’s message; the holo, she reasoned, would train her to withstand him in person.

The message turned out to be audio only.

The colonel sounded like a Core Worlder trying to imitate a hoarse Outer Rim twang. “ _Lieutenant Kijé, I have just received a report claiming you had a part in a friendly fire accident—_ ”

‘Friendly fire’. Kijé bit her lip. The ordeal on Deck 57 had felt like being betrayed and shot at by a friend, indeed. In a rather literal sense, it was what had happened.

“ _—in which General Veers was also involved_.” Half a second of pause, then Covell growled on, “ _I request to hear from you what happened, as soon as possible. And do not assume I can be bullied into silence and acquiescence because you are COMPNOR_.” The message beeped to its end.

How in Shiraya’s name did an Army colonel know what ‘acquiescence’ meant?

She slammed her hands on the desktop and rose.  “Who does he think he is? Talking to me like this… Where’s he from?” She tapped angrily on the screen to zoom in, even if she could read the data just fine. “Corulag. I would’ve bet it was some Outer Rim crap hole where they believe women shouldn’t be allowed to serve in the military.”

“ _Shall I play the next message in your inbox, ma’am?_ ”

“Are all the other messages from Chief Kastle? All of them?”

“ _They are, ma’am_.”

Kijé stood still for several seconds; she counted them on the chrono at the top left of the screen, Imperial Standard Time and Local System Time. Her brain, too, was still. All thinking shrank into a tight ball, away from the harsh words that awaited in her inbox.

She made a dash for the door. Something flashed in the corner of her vision, but it was too late to steer clear of Sixtee. Upon impact, the deactivated droid clattered to the floor. Before the noise had died down, the front door had already slid closed behind Kijé.

Her feet thumped so loudly in the empty corridor that a mouse droid scurried out of her way. Smart survival move; Kijé was in the proper mood for kicking something, for the hell of proving there existed a smaller and weaker creature than her in the galaxy.

She didn’t move away when other crewmembers walked into a collision path with her, nor did she apologise when they bumped. She made a conscious effort to press her lips shut and ignore the guilt roiling in her stomach. But it paid off. In front of the turbolift, a technician spotted her arrival and stepped aside.

When the lift departed, Kijé pumped a fist. “Well done, Lieutenant. Well done.” _That_ was how intimidating she needed to be, how she could and was going to be.

However, when the lift stopped at an intermediate deck to let in a marine and a gunnery officer, Kijé lowered her newfound eye of the rancor to the floor. Just to be safe and not risk finding out it was all in her dreams. Down the corridor that led to the offices of the Thundering Herd’s general staff, she strutted at the centre of the aisle; it was a bit dizzying to walk keeping her chin up, without seeing where her feet stepped. Whenever a passing officer or non-com got too close, quickened her pace and didn’t swerve. The corridor was large and she made it to the office at the end of it without one crash. _Well done, eye of the rancor_.

The office door opened in front of her at once, as if the sensor had caught the vibe of fury and bravery. A junior officer sat at a desk in the anteroom, typing on a computer terminal; one glance, and she carried on typing as if Kijé weren’t there.

Like hell she was going to be intimidated so easily, this time, and by such an amateurish example of cold shoulder. Kijé straightened her back and crumpled her face into the scowl she’d seen every senior ISB officer wear. “I must speak with Colonel Covell. He summoned me.”

The other officer was a lieutenant, too, around her same age. In line with the cast of the armoured infantry corps, she had broad shoulders and thick arms; it carried quite the exhilarating kick, Kijé had to admit, to watch a person so evidently stronger than her shift on the seat and try to make herself smaller.

“I have received no orders regarding this summon,” replied the Army lieutenant. “May I check your clearance code?”

“Clearance for what?” Kijé hadn’t meant to shout, but didn’t bother to dial the volume down either. “He claimed he needed to speak to me, in person, and I came here even if I am awfully busy. So now you _will_ let me in to the colonel—”

“Lieutenant, what is this chaos?”

General Veers’ voice had a similar effect to the thermal detonator on Deck 57: after the explosion, a ringing silence suddenly filled Kijé’s ears.

She turned to see him stride into the anteroom, exuding confidence as usual; it was hard to recall him throwing himself to the ground, shielding the admiral, like Kijé had seen him do. His uniform had received no further damage than a few wrinkles.

“I mean both of you, ladies.” But as he padded near the receptionist officer’s desk, his stare was glued to Kijé.

The receptionist didn’t utter a word; she wouldn’t share any of the responsibility, and the general was already biased in his judgment. Well, may Shiraya’s blood burn them both. Kijé straightened up until it hurt to pull her shoulders back. Her voice came out business-like and self-assured as she was used to faking it, “Colonel Covell requested my presence, sir. He said he needed to speak—”

“This isn’t Colonel Covell’s office, sunshine.” He stood unnervingly close to her, and the desk cut off Kijé’s escape route. The thought of kneeing him in the groin crossed her mind, only to scurry away into the darkness like a fyrnock in the sunlight.

Dammit, double dammit, Veers was huge. She had to stretch her neck upwards to maintain eye contact.

“As you might notice,” he went on, “it’s mine. I assumed you could read my clearly spelled name on the placard. Or do they not teach Aurebesh on Tatooine?”

The artificial gravity intensified its pull and yanked Kijé’s heart straight out of her ribcage, letting it plop to the floor. She itched to tell him, with all due respect (all the general was due for was a force pike up a nostril), that she was from Naboo, His Majesty the Emperor’s very homeworld; but her jaw was sealed shut, her tongue welded to the bottom of her mouth.

“Covell’s office is next door.”

Kijé would have run there, had the big officer moved aside and let her pass. Which he didn’t. Veers stood where he was, staring down at her through contempt-filled narrow eyes.

“What is that you and he have to discuss?”

“It’s actually… it’s classified… sir.”

Veers motioned Kijé to follow him into the office. Instead of running away like the wise reptilian part of her brain was screaming at her to do, Kijé plodded behind him. She heard the faint, fast beep of keys as the receptionist resumed her typing.

Kijé imagined the other lieutenant sticking her tongue at her, and her hair stood on the back of her neck. Blast everyone on this ship. Each and every one. The sooner Lord Vader flicked an airlock open and let every crewmember be sucked into the interstellar void, the better.

Veers sat at the desk, and slanted a look at Kijé, who was still standing. “Sit down.”

She slid onto the chair. Of course sitting without an explicit invitation would have been a breach of discipline. There was no reason why her inner self should be hissing _you spineless coward_ like it did.

“I suppose,” the general said, “Covell’s request had to do with what happened on Deck 57?”

“Yes—I mean, it’s classified—how do you know that, sir?”

“What do _you_ think about what happened?”

The chair had no arms to grip, so Kijé clenched her fists on her thighs, digging her nails into the uniform fabric and stinging the skin underneath. “What do you mean, what I think, sir?”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Miss Propaganda. You have been cropping up wherever that traitor, Trooper First Class Soult, has been involved.” Veers leaned forward, and Kijé inched back. The chair squeaked under her shifted weight. “Are you really as stupid as I fear you are, Lieutenant? Or is it all a decoy?”

“General, I—sir, I’m a COMPNOR officer… Wait, is this why you’re suspecting me of… of I don’t even know what?” She heard the shrillness of an impending crying fit, and so must have Veers. But he wasn’t sneering or scoffing at her yet, which surprised and appalled her.

“Indeed,” he answered without hesitation. “If I or my soldiers must be investigated, I’d damn well like to be informed. I wouldn’t be worth a womp-rat’s arse as a commander—forgive my Coruscanti—if I didn’t take my share of responsibility.”

“That’s very noble of you, sir.” She failed to see where the nobility was.  An idea crossed her mind like a blaster shot in the dark, gleefully murderous. “But do you mean you are taking responsibility for a treason?”

Veers kept scowling at her in silence, then the corners of his big mouth turned upwards and he leaned back on the chair, laughing. “Sunshine,” he said, catching his breath, “this is Lord Vader’s flagship. If _he_ decides I am responsible for anything of that sort, rest assured he’ll kill me long before the ISB does!”

“No, he won’t!”

A gape of surprise replaced the frown. Kijé looked down, before she was forced to brave the general’s anger again. “You are important, sir. For the Army and for the propaganda corps. They have invested so much in your image, sir.”

Veers huffed.

“You aren’t so readily expendable,” and it was utterly unfair, for Veers was an arsehole who deserved to die, “unlike others.”

“Admiral Ozzel, for example?”

Kijé glanced up in surprise. “Admiral Ozzel suffered a fatal stroke caused by overwork! Lord Vader has nothing to do with it. It’s right there in the fleet bulletin. No, I meant, well… people like Captain Menfi.”

“Who?”

“My superior. I was sent aboard the _Executor_ as part of his task force; COMPNOR didn’t deem it permissible the Death Squadron flagship not have a propaganda and public relations unit, you see.”

“Some serious problems to worry about,” said Veers, dripping sarcasm.

“So, uhm, they sent Captain Menfi here, and the first thing he did, out of respect, was to go and introduce himself and his team to Lord Vader. I was ordered to stay in the hangar bay and oversee the unloading of our luggage.” The techs had been manhandling the crates like veermoks in a porcelain shop; she’d stood in a corner, watching and not daring to utter a word of protest. “But they told me what happened—one day later. Well, Captain Menfi said something Lord Vader didn’t appreciate and… uh, they told me Lord Vader did his _thing_ ,” Kijé waved a hand, “and an airlock nearby flew open. Everyone ended up floating in outer space. Except for Lord Vader, of course.”

“I had guessed that, Lieutenant.”

Kijé immediately lowered her gaze. She could read an Aurebesh soup of the open datapads on the general’s desk.

“Then what happened?”

“COMPNOR sent no replacements. I had to make do on my own.”

“The work of how many?”

“Seven people, sir.”

Veers smirked. _Bastard_. “I bet a grand that Lord Vader gave a stern warning to whoever had tried to attach Press Corps mynocks to his boots.”

Kijé bristled. There was nothing to joke about. Captain Menfi had seemed like a nice boss, that one time he’d spoken to her for a few minutes during the two days’ hyperspace trip to the _Executor_ ’s location.

“Who’s your CO now?”

“I… I take orders directly from Chief Alton Kastle. He covered the siege of Lothal, did you know?”

“Pompous son of a Hutt who sits on his arse on Coruscant? Vents on you the pressure his superiors put him under?”

Kijé nodded. “Some days are hard. I feel worthless. _He_ makes me feel worthless, and weak.”

“Too much work?”

“Yes.”

“And he screams the worst things if you don’t turn your… reports, or whatever you do, on time? I don’t mean the rudest things, not necessarily; he knows where to hit you, and hits there hard.”

She dared look Veers in the eyes. Why did he understand everything?

“Were you ever around to hear what the late Admiral Ozzel used to say to Captain Piett, every day?”

“Beg your pardon, sir?”

“I’m amazed that Piett never considered defecting to the Rebellion, if I may be so bold. You can write that in your report. I’m not afraid of the thought police.”

Kijé’s jaw dropped. No one was allowed to be _so bold_. She would have to report him—him, the not-so-easily expendable darling of the Army propaganda. Every single Empire-controlled media outlet had received orders to refer to Veers as ‘the Hero of Hoth’, and complied. Well, one news channel on Cato Neimoidia had failed to report the victory altogether, but last time Kijé had checked, the local ISB officer claimed the situation had been dealt with.

“But, sir, it’s not a matter of being afraid, it’s a matter of patriotic feelings! I can’t believe you, of all people, might be anything less than one hundred percent certain of our victory and the justness of our cause…” Her eyes flicked left and right. “But I’m a bad judge of character, aren’t I? Given the precedent—”

“Trooper Soult’s betrayal was not your fault,” he said in a bored tone. Kijé felt an absurd, yet no less painful, pang at having managed to _bore_ him. Veers went on, “And your job is singing the praises of Death Squadron, not hunting for traitors.” He held up a big hand, stopping Kijé’s protestation before it gathered breath, “Yes, I know it’s our duty to be vigilant, all of us, all the time, and doubt our own kin if necessary. I and the entire Thundering Herd have failed as much as you have.”

Did that mean _she_ would have to report a whole infantry brigade, including the general, with her signature on the form, making _her_ responsible? Kijé felt the blood drain from her face.

“Judging by the look on your face, you’re seeing my point already. Good.”

“…Sir?”

“Listen, none of us is going to Kessel aside from Soult. And perhaps Lieutenant Commander Ardan, depending on whether the admiral is merciful or not. Is that understood?”

Kijé was nodding before her brain started processing and unpacking the implications. Cold, clammy sweat pooled under her armpits and at the crook of her knees. She had become an accomplice. Of what, she couldn’t tell. And there was no way to refuse.

“Finally you’re being reasonable.” Veers moved a datapad out of the way and planted his elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his joined hands. Kijé could smell his breath when he spoke, “I’ll sort the matter out with Covell. All you have to do from now on is mind your work and let me mind mine.” Military-issue toothpaste and a hint of cigarette smoke. How odd; Kijé had seen Piett smoke, but Veers didn’t seem the type for unhealthy habits, not even drinks.

She shook her head, _don’t get distracted, Annice, this isn’t the time to spaz out_ , then corrected the gesture into an affirmative nod.

“And if any of my boys and girls does something suspicious, you are going to tell me first. _Me_. Not Captain Ronnadam, and not this Chief Kassam or what’s his name.”

“Yes, sir.” It surprised her she couldn’t _imagine_ disobeying that order. An utterly illegal order, outside every protocol.

“As a word of advice, you better do the same for the Navy, with Admiral Piett.”

She must have given Veers a funny look, for the general’s expression… no, it didn’t quite soften, but the sneer changed; if it hadn’t been so silly, Kijé would have called it fond. “He has the authority to open and close airlocks at his convenience, too, you know. And you might have noticed he is no spineless wimp, as Ozzel used to claim he was. Better not to rile him up.”

“Sir, is any of this legal? At all?”

The general marched back from whatever happy place his mind had wandered into. “It is what happens in the military and allows the machine to run smoothly. How in blazes have you not noticed until now?” He didn’t give her the time to speak, or she was too slow in finding the words, either way, “Well, you can learn the rules and play the Emperor’s sabacc, or else don’t sit at the table altogether.”

“I’m not sure I follow, sir. Is there a gambling problem aboard the _Executor_?”

“It was a metaphor. According to the reports, the baron administrator of the tibanna mines down there,” Veers gestured at the orange planet filling half of the viewport behind him, “used to be a con artist and a professional gambler. Got me thinking. Anyway, since you’re a literal-minded one…”

For a moment, Kijé deluded herself he’d said ‘literary-minded’, and she ventured a cautious smile.

“If you want to stay in the military, suck it up. It’s a hard life and it’s not for everyone. If you can’t stand it, pack up your kit and leave.”

Kijé’s face froze, stupid tentative smile and all. Her muscles quivered, and her tear ducts filled.

“If you think you have nowhere else to go if you leave, you’re wrong.”

“If by that you mean I should return home, sir, I—” Stars, what was that aggressive tone? But the cutting anger carried her on, “Well, I’m not welcome there anymore.” She gritted her teeth tight. The man here wasn’t interested in knowing the details of a disappointment. He would find it disgusting and ridiculous.

For a start, Veers seemed pensive. “It doesn’t have to be your folks’ old home. What did you do before enlisting?”

“University. I was majoring in Core Worlds History.”

Veers muttered something about a ‘fancy name for claptrap’.

“Well, I didn’t graduate.” The harshness bubbled up again. “It was great at first, then I fell behind.”

“Exams burnout, classmates drama, or a combination of both, eventually spiralling into an all-encompassing meltdown?”

She gulped, and he cracked a ‘gotcha!’ smile. Not an unpleasant one—the general was conventionally attractive by Human standards; if he hadn’t been, his likeness wouldn’t have ended up on recruitment posters. “I was an academy instructor for a semester or two, and I once was a cadet myself. Saw more people tearing up under that kind of terror than battle fatigue.”

“Oh. Yes. Right, sir.” Dammit, this sounded like she didn’t believe him. Honestly, she hadn’t a clue whether she did or not. “The Empire gave me a place to belong, sir,” she blurted out to repair the damage. “I don’t want to leave it. I can get better.”

“In that case, what I said about sucking it off still stands.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked down at the dents her fingertips had dug into the fabric of her trousers. Sucking it _up_ , for the love of Shiraya; _up_. It must be some dialect, or a slip. Had Kijé been braver, and not aflame with second-hand embarrassment, she would have pointed it out to Veers. Next time, he might be making a fool of himself in front of a Grand Moff or Lord Vader or whatever.

“You said your team was disposed of. Do you mean all of them?”

“Oh, no, sir! I have my protocol droid.” Silence. Sticky, uneasy silence. “And my workstation computer, Bethan—B3-TH4N, that’s one of the most recent AI models. The Human personality simulator is optimised for interacting with people during long stretches of space travel.”

“Personality simulator…” Veers pinched the bridge of his long nose, and Kijé bit her tongue over whatever stupid thing she’d no idea of having said. He should have been the one to bite his tongue and feel bad, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“You live on a ship that carries nearly three hundred thousand people,” Veers sounded incredulous rather than angry, “and your only friend is your _computer_?”

A vibroblade pinning her to the chair through her chest would have hurt less. She spoke quietly, and that forced most of the crying edge off her voice, “Well, sir, I suppose this explains why I… _bonded_ with Trooper Soult.”

Veers watched her warily over the big hand that rubbed his nose. The sleeve of his uniform had fallen halfway down his forearm, exposing skin all the way up to the black glove. In the haste to avoid eye contact, Kijé focused her gaze on a purplish stain on the general’s wrist; it must be a bruise from the incident on Deck 57.

With a snort, he picked up a datapad and a stylus.

Kijé fixed her eyes on the bruise on his wrist. Veers started writing on the datapad, then after a few seconds the stylus stopped; he pulled up his sleeve so that it covered his forearm, and resumed writing. The stylus tapped quietly on the touchscreen, for so long that Kijé began counting the seconds, then the minutes, of lost work that Chief Kastle would yell at her for.

Maybe Veers was right. She should leave, go back to Naboo crying like a stupid girl—

She flinched in surprise when Veers pushed the datapad on the desk towards her and said, “Your schedule for tomorrow. Be on time.”

“ _Schedule_?” Kijé blinked at the screen of the datapad. It was a bullet list; the first point was an ominous ‘race track’, at 5 o’clock in the day cycle. She skimmed through the rest of the list until her eyes and heart stopped at ‘target practice’, set for 10:30.

“You’re drilling with the Thunderers. Captain Visdei will watch over you, and make sure you get along with the others.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am, and in all seriousness I order you to be on the training ground tomorrow morning at 5:00 IST.”

“Yes, sir—but, but I have my work to do!”

“You’ll learn to multitask, like the rest of us.” He sank back on the chair. Kijé suspected that, if dignity didn’t prevent it, he would have kicked up his feet on the desk. It pathetically comforted her that, although powerless to accomplish anything else, her presence was keeping him from that ultimate show of contempt.

She gazed at the list again. “‘11:30, zero-g combat’?”

“Very entertaining, that one! I might drop by and join your lot, if my schedule allows it.”

“This is a punishment, sir, isn’t it?”

“Quite the contrary. I’m helping you quit being the dead weight you currently are. No offence.”

“None taken, sir.” She’d called herself much worse things than dead weight. “But why are you helping me, then? I don’t understand.”

Veers remained silent for a few seconds, his stare not quite softened but slightly distant. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said at last. “It pains me to see an officer being so… unofficerly.”

“I’m doing my best—”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but good intentions are no substitutes for proper training. At least I can fix you up a bit.” He waved a big hand towards the door; his sleeve had slipped down again, and a few inches of bruise showed on his skin. “Now get lost. Don’t you have work to do?”

She went stiff in the effort not to jump over the desk and claw his recruitment poster face off. _I do. That’s what I’ve been telling you all along, you dumb old son of a Hutt_. She smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes, a lot, sir. Thank you, sir.” She wriggled out of her seating and trotted to the door, remembering at the very last moment to turn and salute.

Veers was reading another datapad and not deigning to look at her. But she didn’t have the time to sink into disappointment. Without raising his eyes from the datapad, he said, “Don’t even think of asking my permission; the answer is no.”

“Permission for what, sir?”

“And most importantly, don’t think of going to the brig yourself. She’s a traitor, Annice. That makes her as good as dead.”

“I understand, sir.” _Annice_? Had the general bothered to learn her forename? How long had it been since someone had called her by her forename? She blinked the thought away, but an unexplainable warmth lingered over her skin, under the uniform. “Good day, sir.” What in Shiraya’s name—did she actually _mean_ it?


	24. Chapter 24

“Lieutenant Commander Ardan, you have to come with us.”

The stormtrooper officer had barely finished talking when her soldiers began fanning into position in the room, one clattering blaster after another raising to aim at Ardan.

He didn’t struggle, unless you counted quivering as a form of struggle. The stormtrooper officer removed his rank badge and his code cylinder, the cap and the belt, and had him unbuttoned and felt up for any item of clothing that could be fashioned into a noose. When they shoved him handcuffed down the corridor, with his trousers thankfully zipped again, he felt like he was walking half-naked.

It was a long way to the brig, and the stormtroopers appeared to take the most crowded corridors, lifts, and hovertrains to get there.

A holler from somewhere behind the wall of soldiers in plasteel armour, “Hey, Griebs, have you been drinking during your shift again?” made him turn sharply to the stormtrooper captain and ask her if _this humiliating treatment_ was at all necessary.

The captain cocked her helmeted head and on that cue one of the troopers punched Ardan in the solar plexus.

He sagged breathless to the floor with no intention to stand up again, but two troopers lugged him by his bound arms. It made his shoulders burn like they were being torn apart. Soon Ardan had to stop dragging his feet and hobble along, as despondent as he was compliant.

This must have been the admiral’s idea. It reeked of an angry superior officer’s revenge like Firroan villages reeked of dung baked by the flamethrowers.

The cell they hurled him into after unbinding his wrists was the average Imperial brig accommodation: a dark grey cubicle, not unlike ordinary sleeping quarters before you started personalising them with your own holopics, alien trinkets, charred fragments of Rebel ships, pin-up posters. Aside from the retractable pisshole in the wall, the only piece of furniture was a mattress-less bunk, on which Ardan shambled to sit.

A faint whiff of vomit told him the last guest before him was, in all likelihood, someone who’d been celebrating the victory on Hoth.

Someone who should have been Admiral Piett and General Veers.

The stench bubbled in his nose and coagulated into rage as the foul air went down his windpipe, bursting with proper fury when it filled his lungs. “Blasted Huttfuckers!” He slammed his fists on the bunk. It either was harder than he expected or he’d used more force than intended; he doubled over in breathtaking pain, pressing his battered hands to his chest.

He flopped on his side onto the bunk, wincing at the hard surface.

At least his own bunk, in his quarters, had a mattress. Chenda said it was better than the beds in the stormies’ barracks. Physical memories rushed at him with the vividness of spice-induced hallucinations: her heat under the thin blanket, her muscular thighs wrapping around his hips, the crook between her breasts where he rested his head, the scent of sweat and skin there, her drowsy complaints about his tickly stubble. Everything was good and was going to become even better. Admiral Ardan. Lieutenant Soult—no, Captain Soult. Not that she’d ever asked for a career boost, but who wouldn’t want it?

 _Stop it. Don’t think about her. Stop thinking. Stop thinking_.

Too late.

Lieutenant Commander Griebs Ardan was not going to be recorded by a security camera while weeping in a cell, so he rolled onto his belly and buried his head in his arms; to stifle the sobs, he bit onto the sleeve of his uniform. He had no idea when the crying diluted into sleep.

In due course, his screaming back and joints tugged him awake. His arms were prickly and numb from the elbow downwards. Some indefinite section of his spine gave a loud crack as he pulled himself to sit against the wall. The dried tears at the corner of his eyes and on his cheeks felt like grime.

He wiped his face and helplessly studied the cell for any indication of the time. The lights were set to a permanent intensity, unaffected by the ship’s overall day-to-night cycle; the purpose of it was to throw the prisoner’s circadian clock off balance, confound their sense of time, inspire despair and powerlessness, and a bunch of other unpleasantries that Ardan would never have wished to gain direct experience of.

He had no idea how long he’d slept, and couldn’t recall clearly when the stormtroopers had broken into his quarters. The meals, he knew, would come at erratic hours, without fixed intervals between one delivery and the next. Good thing he’d been punched in the stomach: it ached too much for him to feel hunger yet.

Not thinking about Chenda was a struggle he couldn’t win. He rolled onto his other side, pressed his forehead to the wall and kept his arm shielding his face; in that safe position, he allowed himself more tears until the arm he had bent under his head for support went numb. His imagination had conjured up a dress uniform on Chenda, and a general’s rank bar pinned above her left tit—dress uniforms weren’t that skin-tight, what a pity; he had to squeeze his legs closed against a ridiculous urge to prime and fire his rifle.

The rush of desire faded, leaving the inside of his pants soft as normal again. He sat up, desperately awake, and paced up and down the cell. He wanted a cigarette. And Corellian ale, or a glass of water. When would they give him something to drink?

He slumped back onto the bunk. Got to save liquids, better not to sweat.

Soon he grew so bored he had to slowly, methodically pull off his boots and his socks. The floor was stinging cold under his bare feet, a lot colder than in the officers’ quarters. Like they’d taught him in interrogation resistance lessons, he relished in the control he had over his own body. _You are in charge, Griebs. They haven’t taken this from you. You can do this_. He flexed his toes; right foot, left foot, both. _And this_. He turned his ankles; right, left, both.

When the motivational trick didn’t work anymore and his extremities felt too cold, he put his socks and boots back on. As soon as he’d done that, he doubled over and buried his face in his palms. He was shaking and his empty stomach wrung itself like a wet rag. A wave of sour air, with a rotten hint of the caf he’d had for breakfast, bubbled up his gorge.

They would have to bring him food sooner or later. He knew the procedure. A guard would have to see to that, opening the hatch in the door to slip in the tray and the bowl of water. At that moment, he would demand to know what had happened to Chenda. It didn’t matter what they told him—Ardan was sure the guard wouldn’t tell him—he just had an obligation to ask.

He pictured the scene in every detail. He created a name and a life story for the guard: he was a marine who had been assigned female at birth, and enrolled in the Imperial Academy as soon as his transition was dealt with medically and bureaucratically; he’d been been rotated out of a tour on the Death Star mere days before the battle of Yavin. A Corellian, like Chenda. Ardan imagined recognising the accent, and persuading the marine to relent for the sake of the common homeworld. After some hesitation, he allowed himself to imagine the marine whispering to him through the hatch that Chenda had made it to one of the escape pods, tumbled past turbolaser fire and fighter patrols, and disappeared somewhere on Bespin.

He played that record in his mind one, two, three, four times. Midway through the fifth, a noise from the door startled him up on his feet.

A window hissed open in the door, projecting a narrow shelf, and a tray slipped in.

Ardan stood and stared transfixed, then rushed to the door. “Hey!” he called through the window. “Marine!”

The window slid closed, as if it had never been there in the durasteel slab.

“Fuck!” Ardan kicked the door, cried out, “Fuck!” again for his mashed big toe inside the boot. He grabbed the bowls and stomped fumingly back to the bunk.

The water tasted of chlorine and he had to force himself not to spit it out upon the first sip. The food was a jellified soup that tasted of nothing and still managed to be disgusting, on grounds of the slick semi-liquefied consistency alone. Inside his stomach, the jelly solidified into concrete. Ardan was sure it wasn’t healthy to pour the chlorinated water on that heavy lump, but his mouth was dry and his throat was sore and constricted, and only the stars knew when his next meal would be.

He rose to put the empty bowls back on the shelf, then halted in his tracks. He glared defiantly at the ceiling—he had no idea where the surveillance camera would be, so one spot was as good as any—flipped up his middle finger, and returned to the bunk with the bowls. If they wanted them back, they’d have to come and get them.

He’d just sat down and sulkily crossed his arms and legs, holding the bowls in his lap, when the door opened. A stormtrooper stood on the threshold, and more stood behind. By now, Ardan had a trained eyethat could tell the subtle differences between a man’s and a woman’s body in a stormie armour. This one was a woman, and just about as tall as Chenda. He dared hope—

“Get up. Move,” barked the stormtrooper. Not a Corellian accent, not Chenda’s voice.

He contemplated remaining seated and forcing them to drag him. While he envisioned that small act of resistance, he rose and obediently followed the voice of command into the corridor, where he was dispossessed of the bowls and shackled at the wrists again.

Stormtroopers, he thought as they led him out of the detention block. Maybe he should appeal to their feelings of comradeship and ask them about Chenda. Stormies were pack animals.

In a cowed silence, with his head down and his eyes wet and throbbing in the full light of the ship’s corridors, he let himself be pushed towards the upper decks. The lights were set to night cycle. Bloody hell, how long had he slept? He craned his neck to steal a glance at every computer terminal his escort led him past, but it was useless; the stormies made him march too fast.

If any of his fellow bridge officers saw him and recognised him, being paraded around in stun cuffs and a wrinkled uniform, they had the mercy not to call to him. The mercy or, more likely, the fear. He kept his eyes down, out of intimidation-born politeness. He looked up once, when he thought he heard Venka’s voice. Another blaster butt to the kidneys ensured that he wouldn’t try again.

The stormtroopers halted in front of the door to the admiral’s office. “You have to be kidding me,” Ardan breathed. His own ragged voice scared him. The soldiers shoved him inside.

The junior officer at the anteroom reception desk announced into the intercom, “Sir, Midshipman Ardan is here,” and cleared him for access as if she sent prisoners in to Piett’s office every day.

“Midshipman…?”

The stormtroopers pushed him across the final distance to his destination. This time he tried to elbow and wriggle about, one and bound against five armed and armoured troopers.

It was useless and they shoved him into the room. The sole effect was that all his squirming made him trip on his own feet and fall on his knees.

“This is unnecessary,” said Piett. In those three words, he pulverised Admiral Ozzel’s record for highest concentration of contempt in a Human utterance.

He was standing in front of the desk, with his feet apart and his hands behind his ramrod-straight back. Ardan wished he could spit on his polished boots.

“All of this.” Piett shook his head. “Get up, Ardan. And you, Sergeant, release him.”

Ardan stayed on his knees. To simplify her task, the sergeant lifted him by the collar of his uniform and removed the stun cuffs.

“You may leave,” said Piett, and the soldiers left them alone in the spacious office. It was very bare now that it lacked all of Admiral Ozzel’s Alderaanian academic battle paintings, the hologram busts of the Emperor and Grand Moff Tarkin, the Clone Wars dreadnoughts models, the miniature Caridan trees, and the Wrodian carpet on the floor. The new additions, as far as Ardan could observe, were limited to a lot more datapads on the desk. And an ashtray, with a few cigarette stubs lying in it.

“Frankly,” said Piett, rocking on his heels to lean forward, “I quite liked the sight of you on your knees, on second thought. You are at liberty to resume that position.”

Ardan straightened his back and stomped towards the admiral. When he halted in front of him, delighting in every centimeter he was taller than Piett, he clicked his heels. “You wished to see me, Admiral, sir?” He took great care, and great pain to his dehydrated throat, to muster that perfectly martial clipped tone.

“At ease, Midshipman.”

Ardan’s shoulders slumped. _Midshipman_. What the fuck was that nonsense? Another form of softcore torture, no doubt; an attempt to mess with his mind. It was working. Shit, he was cold and sweat was pooling between his shoulder blades and under his armpits.

“I would like to congratulate you on your new posting, Midshipman Ardan.”

“New posting?”

Piett gave him one of his mouth-only smiles, regarding him with unreadably blank eyes. They were more sunken than usual, and a grey-blond five o’clock shadow covered his cheeks and chin. Ardan tried to push away the thought of General Veers complaining about itchy bristles rubbing on his thighs, like Chenda sometimes had done to him.

“No need to blush, Midshipman,” Piett chirped. “You deserved it.”

“What... what are you talking about—sir?”

Piett balked, as if honestly taken by surprise.

Before he could hold himself, Ardan explained, “I have been in the brig until now, sir. I have no idea what this new posting is, and why you refer to me as midshipman.”

“Do you remember what happened to Captain Needa, Midshipman?”

Shit. He’d told Lord Vader about the blackmail. Shit. Shit. _Shit_. Ardan’s knees went weightless; he swung backwards then forwards, and had to brace himself with both hands on the desk.

“Of course you do.” Piett drew a theatrical sad breath through his nose. “Captain Mosel, the new commander of the _Avenger_ , has demoted the warrant officer responsible for waste disposal. You are stepping into his rank and station.”

“Sir—”

“I was rather inclined to have you tried and shot for treason.” Piett shrugged. “But Trooper Soult assumed full responsibility.”

“What have you done to her?” The threatening flat voice scared Ardan first and foremost.

Piett still didn’t seem impressed. Every hint of a smile, however, faded from his face. “Nothing _you_ wouldn’t have been forced to do, had you succeeded in your scheme for stealing my admiralty.”

“I never—”

“ _Son_. Please.” He padded to the other side of the desk, snapping his fingers at Ardan and waving at him to follow. In just one tap and swipe on a screen—Piett must have prepared it beforehand; of course he had had time to plot out this revenge—a video recording started playing. It showed the interior of a detention block cell, exactly like the one Ardan had been thrown into. A woman with a bloodied face sat slumped on the bunk; she held her right arm hugged to her chest, and a medpac bandage was wrapped around her right thigh. At the side of the bunk stood an officer and an IT-O droid.

He couldn’t have mistaken that russet skin and short black hair, that confident half-smile and the sharp angle of her eyes, even with that bruise or crust of dried blood—it was hard to see in the video, it made him sick to stare at it—on her left temple.

The audio track started within a fraction of a second’s lapse, erasing every last-ditch hope. “ _—never thought he’d take it so damn seriously._ ”

A fresh wave of chilly, heart-stopping, stomach-churning dread rolled over Ardan. He had no idea if it was for himself or for Chenda, or both.

“You better sit down,” Piett offered quietly.

Ardan sank into the admiral’s chair. It had a comfortable ergonomic upholstery and stood a few centimeters too high for him.

“ _When did you start planning your defection?_ ” inquired the officer in the recording. Ardan grit his teeth. He knew the voice. Lieutenant Kallic. Stinking bootlicking sack of poodoo.

Chenda shrugged, and smirked through the dried blood. It gutted Ardan to watch her. Then she said in that open-vowelled Corellian drawl he’d always found so sultry to the ear, “ _Since the first day the recruiting party came to my hometown and my name showed up in the ballots. Never cared much for the soldier’s trade, you see. But I was young and figured shooting was better’n tending to crops_.”

“Lies.” Ardan’s voice was threadbare. “She volunteered. During an Empire Day fair. She told me.”

“ _By the end of basic training, I kind of wanted to kill every greyback Huttfucker that came my way. But somehow I behaved, so they sent me to Carida, ‘cos I’m good with blasters_.” She inched a little farther from the IT-O, that hovered a little closer.

“No. No, please.”

Chenda kept talking, a bit faster and louder, “ _Flights of fancy, just flight of fancy. Always kept ‘em to myself. When they sent me to the frontlines, I pretended the Rebels I shot were my officers. The sergeant, the corporal, the lieutenants and captains and all the way to His Majesty the Emperor_.”

“This isn’t true. It can’t be true. Admiral, you can’t possibly believe—”

“Be quiet and pay attention, lad.”

“ _And look, it ain’t like I had a grudge against the Empire to work over. No sweetheart who got blown to atoms on Alderaan or anything. Guess that’s part of what kept me from running off. You see, I always was… was… Heh, don’t know the word. Scared, y’know. Brainwashed. When you spend too much time in a stormie’s armour, you end up thinking in armour ‘round the clock. ‘Sides, I hear the Rebels like defectors with no blood on their paws_.” She defiantly stuck out her blood-caked left palm to Kallic. To Ardan, it felt like a slap across the face. “ _Well, I was pretty trigger-happy on Ithor. Pretended I was gunnin’ down the entire Joint Chiefs council. Imagine the bodies_.”

Kallic pressed on, “ _So you thought the Rebels would be more welcoming to you, if you had information to barter_.”

“ _Ain’t it always like that?_ ”

“ _So you targeted Lieutenant Commander Ardan_.”

She nodded energetically, shooting glances at the IT-O. “ _It was clever thinking_.”

Ardan grasped the arms of the chair, digging his nails into the upholstery.

“ _The kid needed someone to vent about the shit he’d seen on Firro. Fell for me like the vac-heads of Coronet City fall for fast spaceships—_ ”

“I trust you have heard enough.” Piett tapped on the screen and the recording stopped.

“This can’t be true.” Clever thinking. Shared knowledge. The Navy, the Army, the supply lines, everything he could blackmail out of the admiral of Death Squadron… Ardan hung his head, wishing the relentless naval officer in his brain would stop piecing together the horrible truth and evaluating its clues as if they were holographic troop movements on a battle plan. When you wear the Imperial greys for too long, you end up thinking in Imperial grey around the clock.

“She has been using you all along. Your rank, your clearances, your ambition.” Piett patted his shoulder. Too hard for a friendly gesture. Ardan took the cue and rose from the admiral’s rightful seat.

“How am I going to die?” he asked meekly. “Firing squad? Lord Vader? Out of an airlock?”

“You are to remain confined in the brig until we rendezvous with the _Avenger_. I think your only option there is suicide, though I wouldn’t advise it; they usually drug or restrain detainees who attempt taking their lives. And the _Avenger_ does need a waste disposal officer.”

“Aren’t you afraid I might… I might spill the beans? That you and General Veers…?”

Piett regarded him with another glacial smile. “According to certain publications I once confiscated in the TIE pilots’ locker rooms, General Veers is supposed to have slept with much more unsavoury types than me, such as Princess Leia Organa.”

“But I _saw_ you two, in the CCTV footage!”

“And a petty officer about your age once ate a glitterstim cake during a shore leave on Ryloth, and spent the rest of her days trying to persuade the nurses of the psychiatric ward that she had _seen_ the Emperor shooting blue lightning from his fingertips.”

Ardan clamped his mouth shut, smashing his teeth together with a loud click. Chenda had the tapes. The admiral had Chenda. Therefore, he must have the tapes, too. Shit.

“I expected you would see my point.” Piett was the picture of utter triumph, and he wasn’t even smiling or raising his voice.

“But...” Ardan weighed the horrible odds and options, his mouth hanging open and dry. “...Shit,” he muttered. That was all a defeated man had to say; all the noble and magnanimous famous last words were bantha crap.

“Mind your language, Midshipman,” snapped Piett in a tone that would have befitted a drill sergeant. “You have held your rank for one hour and are already pushing for a formal reprimand.”

“I...” He swallowed his pride. “I apologise, sir.”

Piett seemed pleased at the humility; he nodded and hm-hm’ed, and when he spoke again he was back to the condescending good manners, “I have to ask you one thing before we can end this deplorable affair once and for all.”

“Anything you command, sir.” Not like he had another option.

He was handed a datapad containing what the admiral told him was his confession; when he started reading it—or rather, staring at the page without being able to read Aurebesh anymore—Piett urged him, “I wouldn’t dwell on it if I were you, lad. We both know there are several lies, and a few grains of truth that might hurt your feelings even more than the lies.”

Mechanically, Ardan unclasped the stylus, swiped to the bottom of the document and wrote his signature. His name came out in shaky wide letters, like when he was a boy just learning to write in freehand. That reminded him of home and of his parents, and he wanted to scream. “My family has powerful friends,” he fired that one last shot. “You’re going to regret—”

“No, _you_ are.” Piett took the signed datapad from his limp hands. “They have already been informed that you forfeited your career because a traitorous stormtrooper seduced you. Your mother appeared more furious as the fact you had been—I quote— _banging a footsoldier_ than anything else.”

That was very likely of his mother. For this very reason, it stung Ardan deep; he yelped and cupped a hand over his face.

“You are aware this fact alone would land you in a Navy court-martial, an audit with Captain Ronnadam, or both, aren’t you?”

Ardan nodded jerkily.

“While we are on the subject,” Piett prattled on, “you may be interested in knowing that the last thing Trooper Soult had to say before they took her to the brig was… well, she said she’d been faking it all along. Every time. For that, I am sincerely sorry, lad.”

Ardan did not have it in him to fight anymore. He wanted to, of course; he wanted to huff and assert he could tell when a woman faked it. In fact, he couldn’t. He couldn’t even tell when a woman was lying to him. Lying in order to use him as a pawn to her desertion. And he had never held in his arms any other woman while she had an orgasm, anyway.

“You truly are Admiral Ozzel’s worthy successor, sir,” he bit back in a small voice, because he was confident Piett wouldn’t have him killed (why kill him when he could get such a kick from humiliating him?), and apart from his life he had nothing left to lose.

Piett pretended not to notice the sarcasm. “I damn well am.” Or did not see it at all. “And you wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in my place. Do you think Lord Vader would have taken the trouble of keeping you and Trooper Soult alive? Of finding alternative solutions to the noose?”

“…No, sir.”

“You really didn’t think this through, lad.” He sighed. “That is a luxury that officers cannot afford. Soldiers are supposed to obey orders and not question them even in their mind. But someone has to do the thinking.”

“I understand, sir.” Ardan felt slimy with shame, like that time over Firro when he’d sent a bomber squadron to raze a potential enemy base to the ground. The one he’d found out, after it was too late, was a refugee camp teeming with orphaned children. _Now the Alderaani watchdogs will tear us nineteen new arseholes!_ , his captain had bellowed at him. You could tell how dire a situation was by the number of new arseholes she claimed were going to be torn. The top score, for as long as Ardan served on her ship, had been twenty-two.

“Of course you don’t,” Piett mumbled. He picked up another datapad and started reading it. Without looking up, he said, “The troopers outside the door will show you the way back to your cell. You may go.”

“Sir, I formally ask permission to go there on my own. Unescorted, sir. I… You have my word of honour I won’t try to—”

“ _Word of honour_. Lad, please. Besides, I am sure you can find the way to the brig, but to your cell?” Piett raised an eyebrow at him, then continued reading. “Oh, and next objection you try to raise, you’re getting transferred to a prison barge.”

Piett didn’t specify whether he meant that as part of the crew or as part of the… the cargo. Ardan managed a thin, “Yessir,” saluted, spun on his heels and strutted out of the admiral’s office. His gait fell into shamble as soon as he was surrounded by the stormtroopers again.

He didn’t care anymore that everyone on that deck, and on the many decks between that and the brig, could see him—were watching him and elbowing others to watch, even. He recognised Lieutenant Cecius doing just that with Lieutenant Sai. Elbowing, and pointing at him.

“Arsehole,” Ardan muttered.

“No talking,” promptly came the vocoderised bark of a trooper.

“Are any of you troopers from Corellia?” he heard himself ask weakly, as if it were the voice of another man. It wasn’t entirely wrong. Lieutenant Commander Ardan had ceased to exist.

The answer came in the sharp pain of a blaster butt to a point of his head it hurt too much to even tell where exactly. His vision blacked out and he tasted blood in his mouth. A lot of blood.

Several standard days later, Midshipman Ardan reported for duty at the _Avenger_ ’s waste disposal unit with two medbay-issue ersatz teeth.


	25. Chapter 25

For the tenth time since he’d finished typing, deleting and retyping the blasted thing, Piett reread the message in his outbox, ready to be sent. He mouthed it with the last of too many cigarettes dangling from his lips:

**_To: Gen. M. Veers_ **

**_From: Adm. F. Piett_ **

_General,_

_As a sign of my personal gratitude for dealing so quickly and successfully with the betrayal of TFC Soult earlier today, I would like to invite you to my quarters tonight at 22:00 IST for tea. I regret my schedule forbids me to show up at the officers’ club, and while I am aware the bar there offers about five hundred variants of tea, I must note they don’t serve Axxilan spiced tea._

Truthfully, he would rather drink hyperdrive coolant than Axxilan spiced tea ever again.

Well, the invitation was a mere formality. Not that he expected a positive reply anyway. Veers surely would be held hostage in the officers’ club well into the night, recounting the tale of the shootout on Deck 57 and bragging to his retinue of dirt-pounders that he’d saved the admiral’s scrawny arse when the thermal detonators began rolling.

Thank the Force, Lord Vader had demanded no report on that mess. Piett had not dared to supply it spontaneously, for all that he doubted such a serious incident could escape the supreme commander’s notice.

He grunted, stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray, and hit the send button on the display. The message swiped away and a merry green icon informed him it had been successfully sent. Piett switched off the comm console, rose from his seat, and strode out of the office to the mess hall.

When he prowled in there, an entire table of bridge officers was singing _Hearts of Steel_ while the newly-appointed commander of the Lady Ex, Captain Kallic, stood holding a raised glass in his shaky fist and grinning from ear to ear.

There had been no celebration, no songs and no toasts at the time Piett had received that same promotion; Ozzel had had him work until the first hour of the following day cycle.

From his higher observation point, Kallic spotted the admiral and waved at him to join the feast, in a rather ungainly fashion for a captain but a very clear-headed one considering the booze they must’ve pumped him with so far.

Kallic ceded his seat to Piett and sent a petty officer to the buffet with orders to bring ‘only the good stuff and a bottle of emerald.’

The good stuff was nerf medallion, of the pre-packed kind that had been frozen for a bit too long, drowning in a pool of Bimm mustard and grubby vegetables; but at least it was warm, solid food. Piett tore into it one modest forkful at a time, grateful for the continued singing and chatting at the table that prevented his subordinates from hearing his so-far empty stomach grumble for a nosh-up.

He had no idea if Veers had received the message. No answer had gone to his comlink, and he was not going to seek out the general in person. Once the plate was empty and the last drop of sauce mopped up in a morsel of bread, Piett bid everyone good night and left the captain and the other officers to their celebration. They would feel less uneasy about having fun if the admiral wasn’t around.

At ten past twenty-two, he turned the last corner of corridor leading to his quarters. He looked up from his chrono, and nearly tripped on his feet at the sight of the tall officer pacing circles in front of the door.

Veers spotted him, too, and bent that big, pretty mouth of his into a smile, but Piett just glared. “Discretion isn’t your forte, General, is it?” he snarled quietly, brushing past the dirt-pounder to open the lock.

“Oh, there even were two marines on the watch here when I arrived.” Veers didn’t relinquish that not-so-subtly mocking smile. “I told them I had come to visit you and sent them away.”

“You told them _what_?”

“For tea. Visit you for tea. Under your invitation. They didn’t argue. And it’s the truth.” He stepped inside the room, slapping Piett between his shoulder blades as he went in. Piett had no doubt… well, had _little_ doubt it was an affectionate gesture, but the strength knocked the air out of his lungs and sent him reeling two steps forward. The door slid closed and chirped locked behind him.

Veers had already started removing his gloves and cap, forming a small well-ordered pile on the table. “Where is your stuff?” he asked, glancing all around at the room. His fingers started working out the belt buckle, and Piett had to force his own eyes away from there.

“My stuff?”

“Yes. This is your home now, isn’t it? And it’s going to be until we win this war.”

“One hopes.” Piett couldn’t help cracking a smile. _Until we win this war_. Not _until you make a mistake while the big man in black is on the bridge_. The general’s buoyant optimism and unexpected tact were bizarrely comforting to hear.

“You’re not going to personalise your space?” continued Veers. “Not even a holo of your folks? Some flowers maybe?”

Piett was tempted to retort he had seen no holos of Mrs Veers and Veers Junior in the general’s quarters, either, but bit it back. “I don’t know. To be honest I have never cared for such trinkets.”

Veers laughed, slipping off his belt and rolling it up to join the rest of his accoutrements on the table. With the tiniest hint of disappointment, Piett considered for a split second the other uses that could be made of that belt, then shoved them away; he was already feeling a bit too warm in his all-day-worn uniform, and clenched his fists behind his back to keep himself from fumbling with the collar like a bashful cadet.

“I would call you a bore if I didn’t know you better, sailor.”

Damn the way Veers was staring at him. Upfront desire, challenging smugness, a veil of flush over his cheeks and on the tip of his nose. Had the general been drinking, maybe?

They both stepped towards each other at the same time; while their mouths met and tongues flicked in and out, Veers reached behind Piett’s back and gently pulled the other man’s hands under his open tunic.

Yes, the general had been drinking. Not much, and not wine; Juma juice, if Piett wasn’t mistaken. _Lightweight_. He chuckled softly within the kiss, because it was an amusing thing to think while he groped well-defined muscles under a thin shirt, and while two large hands held the small of his back.

His feet in the boots ached from having to stand on their toes and he was almost breathless when the kiss broke, one sloppy centimetre at a time. His hands had wormed their way under Veers’ shirt, while his body was being pressed to the big man’s, half hard-on against half hard-on.

“At least you ate tonight, sailor.”

“I had to send back to the galley some of the foodstuff you had me delivered the other night, you know?”

“Fair enough.” Veers kissed Piett’s forehead. “But you’ve also been smoking a lot, have you?”

“If you make one joke about breathing hazards, I’m going to…” He clammed up just in time, but his eyes shifted towards the belt neatly rolled on the table.

Veers followed his gaze, blinked in dawning comprehension— _bloody hell, I disgust him, damn it, I’ve lost him, damn it_ —then a grin spread over his rosy features. “I did _think_ that joke, Admiral, sir,” he said. His hands squeezed a little harder. “And I am going to brave a fitting punishment for my lack of respect. Anything… anything you wish, sir.”

Piett stiffened to repress a shiver. Bloody hell, they’d shown each other Wild Space just a few hours earlier (ten standard hours earlier—well, still a few) and the general already had his reserves drawn up for the fight; not just an ordinary blue milk run, either, but a flogging. _High time the Navy stops underestimating the Army_. He ignored the traitorous thought and tapped two fingers on Veers’ lips. “All in due time. We have one thing to do first.”

The smile disappeared all too readily. Like the good frontline commander he was, Veers had plenty of experience on things turning sour all of a sudden. “I was not going to fuck you without… you know, preparation. If that is your concern.”

“Oh, no, that is nothing you should worry about. I’d never allow you.” He put in his voice a hint of cold command edge, and Veers nodded energetically. Piett pointed at the desk with the computer terminal, comm console, holo and video projector. “That tape I recovered—”

“What’s that _I_ , Admiral?” Veers raised an eyebrow. “The Navy’s taking credit for the Army’s good deeds again?”

“…that _we_ recovered from Soult and Ardan. It’s there in the player.” Deep breath in, and out. “We ought to view it at least once, before I destroy it.”

“To give us ideas, you mean? I’m not entirely sure drunk shagging offers much in that regard. Lots of sloppy kissing and awkward fumbling.” Veers gazed up and scratched his pretty jaw, fair-whiskered with stubble. “I don’t remember a damn thing from that night anymore. Except that all guns fired in perfect order.”

“Thankfully so.” Piett did his best to sound as cold and intimidating as earlier, but he wasn’t feeling it just as much. “Take a seat, General.”

Veers obediently pulled a chair from the table and positioned himself next to Piett’s seat in front of the console. He froze for a moment, still bent half-sitting, when he recognised the interior of his quarters in the freeze-frame of the video. “So _that_ was where the surveillance camera was hidden.” He flopped onto the chair, crossing his arms. “Prying Huttfuckers.”

“I agree.” Piett pushed the play button and leaned back on the ridiculously comfortable padded chair.

A few seconds ran out on the timestamp at the top of the record, without anything happening. Then the door slid open, and two rat-arsed officers stumbled into the room. Boots clattered. “ _It’s almost like you do surprise inspections on your own room,_ ” Piett’s voice spoke, warped by the low-quality audio almost beyond recognition. He winced.

Veers laughed quietly, but the laughter choked into a gasp as his drunk self in the video slammed the drunk admiral against the closed door and growled, “ _I can make an awful mess of a place if I want to—as the Rebels have learnt on Hoth the hard way. Mind trying that on your own sorry arse?_ ” The voice had but a slur of intoxication, and it was jarringly familiar to Piett’s ears from all the times he’d heard Veers speak through a ship-to-surface comm array.

The next thirty minutes were nothing short of a torture session.

Veers covered his eyes as soon as his drunk self threatened Piett’s drunk self that he was _damn going to lose what little self-control he had left_ , should his fresh battle wound receive harm; Piett elbowed him in the flank, and he clamped that hand over his mouth.

Whatever scrap of dignity Piett could stake a claim to, however, got sucked out the airlock when Veers’ drunk self resorted to oral. Hopelessly, he listened to himself making that wheezing, begging noise, “ _Damn you—I love you_.” Far too loud and too clear, despite the technical limits of the microphone.

In the corner of his eye, he watched Veers crumple into a ball on the chair, his elbows on his knees and his fingers pulling down the skin of his face. He cringed when his drunk self made an awkward, pushy attempt at _going_ _in dry_.

“Firmus,” Veers said in a small voice, while his drunk self lurched off-screen to the ‘fresher. “Please, let’s stop now.”

“Not until the end.” Thank the Force, and Lord Vader’s temper, for the extensive practice Piett had had with sounding calm and collected under duress.

Veers sobbed a curse.

 _Point taken_.

Soon after Veers’ drunk self had conquered the rear positions of Piett’s drunk self, the latter treated the former to a second _I love you_. Piett clutched the armrests of the chair, grit his teeth, and forced himself to breathe evenly. Shit, he had forgotten both instances of that embarrassing admission. Had he retained any memory of either, like fuck he would have let Veers watch this hovertrain-wreck. Hutt-fragging poodoo.

The literal fragging went on for agonisingly long minutes; just plain fragging that would have become boring to watch, if it had involved other fellows but themselves. The recording stopped right after Piett’s drunk self had the decency to refuse a second wave of attack, on grounds of him not being _a tireless youngster anymore._

The video tried to play itself again, and Piett slammed a fist over the red ‘stop’ icon.

A silence as thick and muggy as Axxilan monsoon weather filled the room.

Ever the brave or just the most impatient one, Veers was the first to break it. “So, it seems I forgot everything they taught us in sex ed about how to… how to do it with a man.”

It would never cease to amaze the street urchin deeply buried in Piett’s psyche that someone needed _classes_ to learn about buggering. “It was the first time you tried it. Hardly surprising it wasn’t the greatest.”

“Did I disappoint you?”

“No!” Self-control briefly gone, Piett turned towards the other man and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. It took some stretching, because Veers was such a big bloke. “I… wasn’t exactly in the best shape to show you how it’s done. The fault is mine, first and foremost.”

Slowly, Veers blinked out of the shock-induced catatonia, and frowned. “Wait. Are you saying you had it all planned? Waiting for me at the bar and everything?”

Piett rolled his eyes. Stars, carrying a conversation with Veers was almost as tiring as having sex with him. “Rest assured the entire situation was a coincidence, General. A stroke of luck I acted on. Alcohol went to my head and made me… bold.”

“Any specific reason why you picked me and not someone else?”

Piett eased back into his chair and shrugged. “Well, for a man your age you are fetching.”

“Go to the ninth hell.” Something had changed in the stare he fixed on Piett; not angry, no, but the kind of attentive scrutiny the general usually reserved to holomaps during tactical briefings. “Quit playing glib, Firmus. You’re not a man for casual flings.”

“Tell that to the whores I used to visit after every pay day.”

“Not a man for casual flings with Army generals.”

At a loss for a rejoinder, Piett bit the inside of his cheek.

“You wouldn’t have dived headfirst into this sarlacc pit, and repeated the offence, unless you’d wanted it.” As soon as he saw Piett open his mouth to fight back, he raised a halting hand. “Only once were you so drunk that you weren’t thinking at all. Every other time you kissed me, you were damn sober.”

They stared at each other for long seconds. Then Piett sighed in an irritated surrender. “Alright, dirt-pounder, I confess I’ve been infatuated with you for a while.”

Veers’ eyes widened; that cute display of innocence boring through the interrogation mode made Piett smirk. He taunted, “Is that so surprising? You are too modest, General.”

“And you didn’t act on your… on your crush, until you made it to admiral.” Veers returned serious and inquisitive, disregarding the provocation. “That’s clever.”

The truth, long hidden and now laid bare so quickly and easily, made Piett inch back against the chair for no rational reason. “We both have reputations to protect. I wasn’t going to ruin either yours or mine, as long as Ozzel was around.”

“Well, you almost did.”

That stung, but Piett held his tongue and just glared until the worst of the rage had rolled off. “True. But we navigated out of the asteroid field, so to speak. That is enough.” He used the tone for giving orders, and the general reacted to it in the natural way of a soldier.

“Yes, yes, fine,” said Veers. “By the way, didn’t that lieutenant who ratted Ardan out—”

“Lieutenant Venka.”

“Yes. How come you didn’t make him captain? According to the scuttlebutt, he was gunning for it.”

“I trust Kallic better. Besides, I don’t like schemers. Also, the _Regent_ just happened to have lost her entire bridge crew to an asteroid collision, including the captain.” Piett shrugged. Poor bastards, all of them and the next-of-kin who had been courtesy-copied the condolences messages.

“Don’t I know! After every battle, I spend whole standard days just reviewing and approving field promotions.” Veers’ eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. “Hoth was no exception, as you can imagine.”

“How is your wound healing, by the way?” Piett distracted him nonchalantly from whatever battlefield horror and list of losses was flashing across his brain.

“Hm? Ah, yes. According to the medidroid, I can remove the bacta patch tomorrow. It’s healing very well. No thanks to you.”

Piett laughed to hide a rush of shame at the recollection of himself nibbling, on a lust-drunken whim, at the patch over Veers’ injured side. “I was only kissing it better.” Stars, this was awful. It damn showed that he’d picked up his bedroom-talking skills from prostitutes. He wished he could bite off his tongue and spit it out into the thermosphere of Bespin.

“Git.”

“Mind your language, General.”

“Says the one who blurted out _I love you_. Twice.”

A lightsaber cleaving his chest open would have impaired Piett’s heartrate less. “Because I was drunk, and it is the gracious thing to tell someone who’s polishing your force-pike.” He did his utmost to sneer like he meant the dismissiveness; he could only hope the lie wasn’t so pathetically audible to Veers’ ears as it was to his.

Veers looked away, his massive frame suddenly shaking; after one instant of freezing terror, Piett watched him bend over and rock back on the chair in a fit of booming laughter. Holding his side—the wounded one, Piett noticed with dismay—and throwing his head back while fresh blush coloured his cheeks a more intense red than the aborted foreplay had managed to induce.

“Glad you appreciate my sense of humour,” Piett grumbled. The remark drowned in the noise of hilarity, and that upset Piett even more.

Before he could do anything, Veers rose, still laughing. In passing past Piett’s seat he flicked off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it with a strength that made the smaller man feel limp and weak like a rag doll. He had to clench his fists and bury them in his trousers pocket, in a conscious effort to stay still and not swat Veers’ hand off.

“Max, where are you…?” The question trailed off as Piett breathed a pitiful sigh of relief when Veers took the opposite direction from the door. Towards the bed. He disappeared behind the folding screen, but Piett could hear the faint creak of the mattress, and a rustle of clothes being discarded.

“Are you coming or not?” called Veers.

“Patience, General, patience.” Satisfied with how his voice sounded calm and unperturbed, Piett forced himself to walk in a slow gait up to the bed. Veers was lying on his side and had already stripped to his pants and shirt, the rest of his uniform folded on a nearby shelf. Piett resolutely averted his gaze from him, sat down on a far corner of the mattress, and began undressing.

His boots were the first to go, and he couldn’t suppress a mutter of thanks to the good stars as his aching toes could flex freely—and crack ominously, sending a jolt of pain up the arch of his foot. _You’re not a tireless youngster anymore, Firmus_.

A strong pair of naked arms looped around his waist. His gut instinct was to stiffen, but then he relaxed into the hold and pried the fastener of his tunic open.

Veers, peering down over his shoulder, took care of the belt buckle with one hand, and of the zip of Piett’s trousers with the other. It was a funny sensation, being freed and trapped at the same time. Piett locked a sigh behind gritted teeth, rubbing his back against Veers’ chest.

The other man’s big hand slipped into the now open zip, caressed the erection through the fabric of the boxers.

A comlink pinged somewhere in the room.

“Mine.” Veers kissed Piett’s cheek and released him. “Finish undressing.” While he quickly rifled through his clothes, he added, “And get something better than soap this time.”

The dirt-pounder learned fast.

There was a chest of drawers (Kashyyyk wood, a war trophy) at the side of the table; upon opening the top drawer for the first time, Piett had found inside a small assortment of basic meds—condoms and lube among them.

Code cylinders and rank badge were laid atop the chest; he whipped off the tunic and pulled the sanitary necessities out of the drawer.

Veers was speaking in a low voice into the comlink, pacing in the living room.  Piett had never considered himself a gossip, but useful information came from every source; he concentrated on deciphering what the general and the faint feminine voice that crackled through the comlink were saying.

“Look, Lieutenant, I’m off duty and far more tired than you…” Veers paced farther and the next words were lost. “…what is the problem now?”

The voice murmured something about a camera, a training ground, and the Press Corps.

Piett leapt to his feet. Discretion be damned, he stomped over to face the general, his hands on his hips for the sake of intimidation and to pull his trousers up; when Veers made a start, Piett gestured at him to stay still and keep talking. Veers grimaced, but nodded. “Well,” he barked into the comlink, “I won’t be the one to explain you how to do your job. Bring the damned camera. But make sure it’s a small and unobtrusive one. If it’s big, I’m letting the troopers use it for target practice.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure it’s unobtrusive, sir. Thank you, sir.” The voice was Lieutenant Kijé’s. “You won’t even notice it’s there, sir.”

“And if it gets broken or lost, the Thundering Herd will not assume any responsibility.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Now please, go to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You need to be well-rested.”

“I do, sir.”

“Or else you might not live to see the next night cycle.”

Silence.

“Good night, sunshine,” Veers said with a smirk.

“Good… good night, sir.” _Click_.

An unexpectedly sweeping wave of relief, or joy, or another such warm emotion, washed over Piett the instant he had Veers’ full attention back on himself. He cast the general a pointed look of censure. “ _Sunshine_?”

“That poor kid hasn’t had anyone be nice to her in a while. And this _will_ make the Press Corps happy. See, Admiral? I am not insensitive to the needs of our propaganda.” Under the weight of Piett’s stare, he cracked an embarrassed smile. “I also have a substantial stock of underused paternal instinct, and she must be roughly the same age as my son.”

Piett shook his head, caught by complete surprise. “You can’t be serious.”

“Correct. I don’t even want to think about being serious now, Firmus.” His hooded eyes raked over Piett up and down; the lust was so frank and plain it made the admiral feel small. Easy to harm. Then it stoked a fierce, filthy desire to make the big lad pay dearly for being so big and tough. A warm, snug tension flared up in his groin.

“I told you to undress, didn’t I?” Veers took Piett’s hands in his as soon as the latter hastened to pull off his shirt. “No, no, never mind actually. I’d rather do it myself.”


	26. Chapter 26

_Several rotations later_

 

Cold. It petrified the skin of his back, his arse, his legs. His every hair was standing. Old injuries all across his body throbbed in a dull, bone-deep pain. But he was hugging a warm small form, nestled against him, whose every soft breath brushed his sternum. His nostrils were full of the other body’s scent: cologne and sweat, his own smell mingled in. The pain was always there at the edge of his senses, of course, but it was bearable. So was the cold. Everything else was quietness, a truce…

Veers’ eyes shot open to the dim glow of night cycle lights. Shit, he’d fallen asleep. The stars only knew for how long.

He sat up in bed, letting his eyesight adjust to the darkness. He didn’t need his eyes, though, to feel that Piett was curled up next to him on his side, snoring quietly. When he could make out more details in the half-light, Veers noticed his mussed hair and the oversized shirt he had on.

The shrimp was sensitive to cold, Veers had learned, and would grope for the nearest item of clothing available to shield himself when necessary, regardless of said item’s ownership. Or size difference.

Sly little son of a Hutt, Veers thought with a smile. Sailors shouldn’t be allowed to appear so sweet and harmless in their sleep.

Although he would have loved to lean forward and kiss him, he didn’t; instead he shuffled out of bed, grinding his teeth at the cold floor under his bare feet, and tried to disentangle the bedspreads—clammy at the touch; he felt his cheeks flush—and cover the sleeper.

“Hmm—Max?”

“Still here.” Veers flopped on the mattress. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” He shivered from something that wasn’t the cold, when Piett’s arm wound around his waist.

“Don’t you dare let me fall asleep again, dear.”

“This is a new one.”

“What?”

“You just called me ‘dear’.” Veers slipped a hand under the front of _his_ shirt. It was blissfully warm underneath. “It’s a first.” He reached down with his long fingers and started toying with the bristly hair on the other man’s lower belly.

“I’ve called you many other things, though. Not all very flattering.”

“None of them flattering, unless,” Veers did his best to reproduce that Outer Rim accent, “ _dirt-brained laser-fodder_ is a term of endearment on Axxila.”

“There exists no such thing as a term of endearment in Axxilan dialect.” His hand trailed lazily up Veers’ spine, one vertebra at a time. When it touched nail scratches and bite marks, Veers flinched.

“I really forget myself sometimes,” Piett mumbled. But his exploring fingers didn’t stop.

“You should do it more often.”

“Oh, bollocks.”

“At once, sir.” Veers pulled Piett onto his back and stood on all fours over him; he rolled up the shirt in a tidy cuff around Piett’s midriff, then slipped both hands between his legs to palm the ticklish flesh of his inner thighs. The noise of a stifled giggle made the grin on Veers’ face widen. Even if the light was scarce, he fixed his eyes on Piett’s face; not one wink must be missed. His right hand wrapped itself around the sailor’s balls, the left around his cock. The skin was slick with a thin veneer of sweat and lube.

As soon as he started gently massaging, Piett let out an appreciative hum.

Veers licked his lips in anticipation.

A comlink blared out loud.

“Bleeding rotten son of a Hutt!” Veers growled for both of them. “It’s yours.” He toppled away to his half of the mattress, allowing Piett to reach out for the comlink on the bedside table. Whatever fumbling Piett’s fingers did, they flicked the device to the floor. Piett cursed; Veers snickered, quietly but without shame. It was a worthy revenge for that prank he’d pulled on him in the cockpit of Blizzard 1.

Piett bent over to grope for the comlink under the bed. The chance was too rich to miss, and Veers reached out for the admiral’s unguarded rear. He didn’t bother to control his strength when he squeezed that scrawny piece of afterburner.

“Lights on!” Piett hollered over the beeps of the comlink.

The universe exploded all around Veers, at day cycle full intensity. He pressed his blinded eyes shut, and sought shelter under the nearest piece of bedsheet he could yank over his head.

“My eyes…” he groaned. “Sailor, when this comm is over I’m grinding you to nerf nuggets.”

“Hush!” The damned comlink went silent. Piett barked his surname, answering the call.

Under the blanket, at first Veers thought he’d misheard the noise: an astounding number of things could produce similar sounds to the hiss of Lord Vader’s respirator through a comlink (the only limits were a prankster’s imagination, and the fear of punishment if they got caught). It was the way Piett went absolutely silent and still that hit him hard with awareness.

“Admiral, the _Millennium Falcon_ has begun landing on Cloud City.”

It had to happen now, in the dead of the _Executor_ ’s night cycle, during a watch when the admiral wasn’t on the bridge. One watch out of what Veers had complained to Piett had been damn too many, for all he understood and respected the sailor’s devotion to his work. He peeked out of the tangle of bedcovers, squinting in the light, and brushed Piett’s arm for comfort.

The admiral must have been dismayed, but he buried it quickly, “Very well, my lord. I’m on my way.”

“And you are not allowed in General Veers’ company for any other reason than strictly professional until we have secured Skywalker.”

The general in question jerked back his hand.

Piett’s face had blanched, and it wasn’t a trick of the light. “Yes, my lord.”

“I need you at your sharpest now, Admiral,” rumbled the voice from the comlink. The comm shut off.

Piett waited a moment then exhaled loudly, his shoulders sagging, as if he’d been holding a deep breath. He took a few such gasping lungfuls, put the comlink down, stripped out of Veers’ shirt as if the fabric had caught fire, and scooped clean socks, pants and undershirt from the drawers at the bedside.

“Firmus.”

He didn’t turn.

“He knows.” Veers lay back down. “Bloody hell!” It was both for the conversation he had just heard—for the stern warning he had just received—and for the reawakened pain on his wounded back. “Bloody hell, he knows.” Shame and the raw hurt of violation tore bitterly at his throat.

Piett glanced around at the bed and lunged to fetch his cap, a patch of olive drab peeking from under a bulge of bedsheets. At the last moment he changed route and laid his hand on Veers’ knee. “There will be no consequences for you. I won’t let it happen.”

“May I know _how_?” Veers blurted out. “That poor buggering war hero, Captain Needa of the _Avenger_ , tried to play the bravery card and apologise politely. Some fat good Idiot’s Array, that was.” He immediately regretted his words.

“I have no idea,” Piett confessed in a tired murmur, “but I’ll manage that. I won’t lose another good officer so easily.”

 _Including yourself?_ “Damn lights.” Veers massaged his temples, to have an excuse for not bearing to look at him.

“Just… don’t ask me how.”

“Great. Well, let me know when you need me to push you out of the line of fire. Again.”

“ _General_.”

“…Sorry.”

On his way to the ‘fresher, Piett fished a clean uniform from the wardrobe—that for all Veers could see, contained only spare Imperial greys and what must be the admiral’s dress uniform, wrapped in laundry film.

By the time Piett returned clean-shaven, combed and dressed save for shoeless feet, Veers had barely managed to tuck himself back into his trousers. “Let me help you,” he offered, kneeling to retrieve one of Piett’s boots.

The admiral fixed on him one of his unreadable stares. _Please_ , Veers found himself thinking. _Please_.

Piett nodded, and sat on the bedside.

His heart ridiculously lighter, Veers slipped one boot on the admiral, then the next, with long-practised deftness. The infantryman inside him launched into a mute rant against the Imperial custom of sticking to parade jackboots on starship service, whereas the Rebel scum wore comfortable stuff all the time. That reminded him, he might have to add that to his next memorandum for High Command…

“Thanks,” said Piett. He rose, and extended Veers a gloved hand. At the first hint of a pull, Veers felt the arm behind it remain limp and relaxed; it wasn’t meant to help him to his feet.

He clasped the hand with not enough strength to hurt, but enough to let the sailor feel how much he loathed the separation. They might be travelling the hyperlane to Wild Space together at the end of this day cycle, or he might be drinking a toast (many toasts) to the late Admiral Piett’s memory: _gone too soon, Lord Vader has wasted a decent fellow this time, what a crying shame_ …

When he pressed his lips to the knuckles, the combined aroma of leather and freshly applied Navy cologne made the hair on his bare arms and on the back of his head stand. “Take care, sailor,” he said. “Comm me if you need anything at any time, sir.”

Piett schooled his features into a soulless smile, fit for the command bridge, and strode quickly out of the door. No sane being would want to keep Lord Vader waiting.

And yet… Veers eased his back against the bed—he hissed in pain; fuck, raw scratches. Who knew, maybe the admiral was also in a hurry to remove himself from his presence, before he let slip any mawkish feeling. They would get in the way, now that Lord Vader _needed him at his sharpest_.

Veers snorted. His Lordship should’ve seen how he’d performed his duties as impeccably as ever, even after he’d received the news that Eliana had been dead for a week and his colonel denied his extraordinary leave requests for ten more standard days.

Had he known where Piett hid his supply of cigarettes, he would have stolen one.


End file.
